Wayfaring Stranger
by Cainwen the Warrior
Summary: Aragorn is injured while traveling through Gondor and is taken in by a young, gifted healer. But she is as wounded as he, and both of them will have to help the other heal. NO SLASH, SEX, PROFANITY
1. Toil and Danger

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Toil and Danger 

Summery: Thirty years before the War of the Ring, while wandering through Gondor, Aragorn finds himself injured, and in need of help. The woman who heals him is as much in need of his help as he of her's, but can they each give up their pride and defenses and accept the aide that is offered?

Medical disclaimer: I am not a doctor, nurse or expert in anyway shape or form in medical matters. This story is a work of fiction, and not intended to be used as a guide in medical matters. The diseases/injuries/ cures included in this narrative are what best serve the author's needs for plot devices etc.

Other Disclaimer: I do not own, nor did invent/discover, any of the places, events, characters, et cetera, of the original Lord of the Rings stories. They belong to Prof. Tolkien. However, I do lay claim to some original characters in this story and the events pertaining to them. Furthermore, I do not own the rights to the song at the end of this Chapter. I do not know if or who does, but no copyright infringement was intended.

If anyone knows anything else I need to disclaim to avoid prosecution, drop me a note in your review and I will correct the problem.

Please, no burn reviews! I welcome constructive criticism, but if you hate this story for reasons other than it is plainly badly written, please do not punish me. Just go read one of the many, many wonderful stories on this site and make those authors happy.

I apologise in advance for the formatting problems that will undoubtedly occur. The first time I upload any story the formatting is horrible. I will fix it as soon as I can

Chapter 1- Wayfaring Stranger

Aragorn sank wearily to his knees and let his head hang down, sweat and blood running down his face. He gazed at the half dozen orc bodies that lay strewn about him, their black blood and his crimson staining the white snow that lay in a thick blanket on the Gondor countryside as far as the eye could see. Aragorn was puzzled as to why the orcs had roamed so far from the mountains. He had heard that they had been going farther and farther afield, so that men were afraid to travel even in these woods by night.

Aragorn whistled softly for his horse, Arthad, and as he did so became painfully aware of the injuries he had sustained fighting the evil creatures. He clasped a hand to his right side, and felt warm blood flow through his fingers from a deep wound; he packed clean snow on it to try and stop the bleeding, praying to the Valar that the cursed blade that had cut him was not poisoned. As he felt his chest start to go numb with the cold, his horse came cantering up and stopped near his master. Arthad gently nuzzled his master and friend's shoulder, sensing him to be injured. Aragorn looked up at his equine companion and whispered to him to kneel so he could mount. Arthad kicked one of the orc bodies away to give him the room to kneel in the snow. Aragorn used the saddle horn to pull himself on to Arthad and then tied himself on, not knowing whether he could stay conscious long enough to reach the nearest village. He pulled out the roll of spare bandages he always had on hand, and wrapped it as tightly around the wound as he could, while his horse rose and started away from the gruesome sight of the skirmish. He began to shiver violently, pulled his cloak closer about him. Aragorn turned his horse in the direction that he dimly remembered the nearest village to be, hoping that Arthad remembered it too, and would make it there without his guidance.

They set off into the night, dawn still hours away and not knowing how many more bands of orcs lay waiting in ambush for wanderers. Aragorn knew that he had to try and stay awake, because if he did not, he could very easily bleed, or freeze, to death. He struggled to keep his mind aware and fighting the darkness and red haze that swam before his eyes and he so desperately wanted to sink into, to sleep and leave the stabbing, burning pain that seemed to have encompassed his entire body. He thought of Arwen, waiting for him in Lorien with Galadriel. He was going to meet her there in the spring, when the malorn trees lost their old leaves in showers of gold and new, silvery green leaves took their place. He liked to be in Lothlorien during the spring, there was something about the timelessness of the elven country when the rest of the world was beginning a new life that he loved.

A cold north wind cut through Aragorn's sodden wool cloak, chilling him to the bone. He began to shake violently with the cold and wanted desperately to let himself sink into the warm, welcoming darkness that gathered at the edge of his mind. His teeth chattering, he tried to sing elvish songs to himself to stay awake, but he could feel himself sliding into semi-consciousness. Arthad could feel his rider loosen his grip on the reins and could feel him being held in the saddle by the rope. Arthad sped up his pace and whinnied urgently in the hopes that his master would come round, but his efforts worked only for a short time. In the white landscape, Arthad was having trouble recalling where the village was that Aragorn had set them on a course for. As the light of dawn grew stronger, the wind also grew and the horse could sense that a storm was blowing in. Suddenly, that sixth sense that is unique to horses told Arthad that there was another horse approaching a ways off. Arthad had learned from experience that, at least in Middle Earth, where there was a horse, there was a person, and a fellow human was what Aragorn needed most.

With the other horse there was indeed another human, a young woman, wrapped in layers of homespun wool and enjoying the peacefulness that the snow blanketed Gondor countryside afforded her. She was called Tithen, and she was softly singing an old song her mother had taught her when suddenly her horse's ears pricked up and he strained to veer of their course. She pulled him to a stop and consulted the sky. Even though the sun was hidden behind clouds, she could see that it was not yet noon. If Arod could sense another horse, it meant that it was close enough that she could still make it to the village before nightfall. She decided to see what it was that he had heard, and as soon as she slackened her hold on the reins her horse took off in the direction of whatever it was that he had heard.

It was not long before Tithen could see the tiny figure of a man on horseback in the distance. As they drew nearer, she could see that he was slumped over his saddle, as though he were injured. She urged Arod to go faster and as they came almost level with the other rider and his horse, she could see that her assumption was correct, as the snow beneath the waiting stead was dotted with fresh blood. The other horse drew back, not recognizing them, and the rider seemed to be oblivious to everything around him.

"Hail Stranger!" she said loudly, hoping to get the man's attention. His horse backed off, keeping several metres distance between her and his master. Arod made a sound that defies human description and the other horse seemed to understand instantly that Arod's rider was good and could help the man. The horse came alongside Tithen and stood still as stone.

Aragorn was wandering in a dark mist—he was distantly aware that Arthad had stopped moving. Hoping that they had reached the village and that someone was nearby, he clutched his side and tried to raise his head. He started to say, "Please, help me," but his mouth was so dry and his tongue so swollen that only a soft moan escaped through his cracked lips. He heard a soft, strong voice speak to him as though from far off, and he tried to rouse himself. Aragorn felt someone gently, but firmly move his hand from his side and pull back the bandages. He gasped in pain, and the hand withdrew.

Tithen bit her lip. The man's injuries were severe, and judging by his appearance, he had been travelling in the cold and dark for hours. He needed help, quickly, if he were going to survive. She looked at his horse. The beast was tired, there was no doubt about that, but it seemed strong and determined to take his rider to the ends of the earth if necessary. Quickly, she tied a long tether to her horse's bridle and the man's horse. She untied her bedroll from her saddle and, reaching over, got the man's bedroll from behind his saddle and threw it over his shoulders. She dismounted her horse and talked softly to him, telling him of her plan, before leaping lightly behind the man on his horse, who did not seem to notice very much her added weight on his back. She wrapped the bedroll tightly around Aragorn and her own around them both, hoping to use her own body heat to warm him.

Aragorn was slipping in and out of consciousness again, and he did not so much feel as sense that the someone with the gentle voice had come to be behind him on his horse and had wrapped warm, dry blankets around his half-frozen form. She was holding the reins in one hand while keeping a firm hand around his waist and pressing his wound, painfully. Once again he tried to speak to the person, and again his mouth refused to obey as the horse leapt beneath him and cantered off wherever his rescuer was taking him. As he felt himself sinking into the welcoming darkness he heard her whisper in his ear, "Mae govanen, mellon nîn. Rest now, we'll be home soon—but do not dare leave me. I have not had the chance to cook for anyone but myself in a long time." He fell asleep listening to Tithen singing

I'm just a poor, wayfaring stranger,

A-travellin' through, this world of woe,

But there's no sickness, toil or danger,

In that bright land, to which I go

I'm going there to see my mother…

TBC

Author's note: I know that "Wayfaring Stranger" is a spiritual and therefore doesn't really belong in a story about Middle Earth, but it just seemed so perfect, and I promise it's the only outside thing I will be so impertinent to add to Prof. Tolkien's wonderful world. Fellow Die Hard Tolkienites, please forgive me! Furthermore, I apologize for the shortness of the chapter. I simply hoped to whet your appetite. I promise to post a new chapter hopefully within two weeks and that it will be much longer. Thank you for reading this!


	2. Hearth and Home

**Little Healer

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**Emily**: Thank you for reviewing! Kudos to you, the first reviewer of this story.

**Gaia**: Thank you! Your review prompted me to finish chapter two, I'm glad you are enjoying it!

Author's note: I am switching between perspectives, partly because I just like to do that and partly because Aragorn still isn't able to talk. Aragorn lovers, do not fear, our beloved ranger will bless us with his voice once again and soon! Ahem, in order to make it clearer when I am switching point of views, I am putting this sign between paragraphs and if I am jumping through time, I'll put just . I hope that these come through. I have had some trouble with the document manager not uploading all the symbols. Thank you for reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

Medical Disclaimer: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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It was nearly sundown by the time Tithen guided the horses and Aragorn to her farmhouse. She could feel the man's weary horse panting beneath her; she had driven him hard. But time was running out for this man, and no matter how much her heart ached for the exhausted horse, no matter how much she wanted to put the man on her horse and ride him for a time, she knew that she would never have been able to get the man safely onto Arod. Her throat was painful and had hours ago become raspy, but she had kept up a one sided conversation with the man, encouraging him, threatening him, telling him stories and singing, trying to keep him on her side of the darkness.

"Where do you come from, stranger? You are not from around here, you are not from the south of Middle Earth, no, you come from the north, the land of trolls, and ice. If you had wanted warm weather you needed to go further south, Lebbennon. You had better be alive when we get home. I will be very upset if I have driven this horse for a dead man. I wonder what you like to eat," she rambled, hoping against hope that he could hear her and would keep listening in the hope that she said something that made sense.

Aragorn could hear her, but just barely. He heard a girl's voice, no, not a girl's voice, it was too melodious, too soothing, too maternal to be a girl's voice, a woman's voice. He had caught only bits, phrases of what she said, mostly when she spoke in Elvish was when he understood her. He understood, dimly, as though in a dream, that she was taking him home, wherever that was. He had heard her say over and over again "Tithen", little, and he wondered what she meant. But thoughts about his rescuer's words came second to his thoughts about her strength, and his pain. He realized that she was holding him onto his horse, which seemed to be going very fast.

As time wore on, Aragorn grew colder, despite the woman's warming embrace and the layers of blankets around him. The world grew darker, though whether it was from the sun going down or the darkness was only in his mind, he could not tell. After what seemed to be an eternity, Aragorn felt the woman pull on the reins and Arthad came panting to a halt. The woman placed her right hand across his forehead, whispered words he could not hear, but his head grew clearer and the darkness receded, relinquishing it's hold on his conscious mind. He raised his head slowly, trying to ignore the dizziness that swept over him, around him, and open his eyes, but the dark world tilted out of focus and he closed his eyes as quickly as he could.

"Shh, don't do that yet. Stay still, I shall return," the voice he had heard weaving in and out of his waking dreams murmured to him before the little warmth he had felt behind him slid away and he was left shivering in the dark, violently swirling night.

Tithen tried to be as gentle as she could as she got of the horse and ran to her door, unlocking the normal lock and quickly giving it the password to release the enchantment. She rushed in and began lighting lamps, candles, and rekindling the fire in the large hearth, remembering to turn down the blankets of the bed on the first floor, before rushing out again. She untied the ropes about the man's waist and gently eased him off his horse, using all of her considerable strength and thanking the Valar for her height. When he was on the ground, she considered simply picking him up and carrying him into the house, but remembered that all his clothes were sopping wet and realizing he would be difficult to carry, even for a farm girl. She placed his arm across her shoulder and slid her arm around him, half carrying and half supporting him to the house.

"That's it," she said softly, "One foot at a time. Don't open your eyes, don't worry about falling. I have you, I wont let you fall."

Aragorn wished the ground would stay in one place. He cursed the unbearable vertigo that had taken his head prisoner, and wished that his legs would support his weight. He felt the woman place his arm over her shoulder and her strong arm support him as she led the way to the house. He found that his feet did not seem to want to obey him. He tried to open his eyes and see where he was going, but it only intensified the dizziness, seeing the ground sliding about as it did. Aragorn closed them again and let the woman lead him, guiding him over doorsill and into the warm house.

There was warmth and light all around him. He could feel it lap about him and see the glow of fire as it filtered through his eyelids. She led him down a short corridor, and into a room on the right. This room was cooler than the hall, but still warm. Aragorn was guided to a soft, large chair and settled against its many soft pillows.

Tithen breathed a sigh of relief as she helped the man sink into the chair. He was in the room he needed to be in, and his color, pale and sickly though it was, was nowhere near as bad as she had feared it would be. She placed her fingers against the pulse point in his neck—it was weak, but there, and steady. She gently tucked a blanket around him to keep him warm while she got her healer's things and heated water. She knew she would need a lot. The man's injuries were serious, and he was caked in blood, sweat and mud. Tithen could only hope that he had brought spare clothes with him. She could of course… but no, she could not think about that, it wasn't good to think about such things.

She hastened to the kitchen and, throwing off her cloak and coat, grabbed as many pots as she could carry under one arm. She slung her healer's bad over her shoulder and tucked the small chest that held extra bandages and ointments under her other arm. As she hurried past the row of pegs by the door, she deftly knocked a large white apron off one of them and over her shoulder. If twenty years of being a healer had taught Tithen anything, it was that one should always wear an apron when healing dirty Rangers.

She dropped the pans on the hearthrug, and despite her attempts to do so quietly, they clattered and the man jumped.

"Shhh," she told the pans. "Be quiet." She placed her healer's things on a small, low table between the chair Aragorn sat in and the bed. Tithen checked his pulse and breathing again, and then placed her hands on his forehead and hands. His hands were icy and clammy. She walked to on of the cabinets that were built on either side of the fireplace and retrieved several woolen blankets and quilts, which had been warmed through by the heat radiating off of the chimney. She wrapped them around Aragorn's shivering form, and set others on the foot of the bed. After placing more pillows beside and behind the man's head, satisfied that he was at least stable, and getting warm, Tithen left the room to bring in more wood for the fire and water. She made several trips, one hand holding her outer skirt in a hammock shape, which carried several logs, and the other hand carrying a large bucket full of water, which in turn was poured into one of the small kettles resting near the embers or the large pot hanging over the fire.

When she was content with the amount of wood she had piled on the fire or in the wood bin, and one of the smaller, cast-iron pots was steaming, she returned her attention to the man, which it had never really left. She knew that once she started to patch him up, she would not be able to stop and she needed to have everything she would need on hand. Also, the first priority for the man was to get him warm—he had been injured for hours, and his wounds had stopped bleeding seriously. If he had not bled to death yet, he wouldn't within the half hour or so it took her to heat the water and fetch her bandages.

Tithen took off her sweaters, rolled up her sleeves and tied on her apron. She grabbed several towels out of the warming cupboards, throwing most of them over her shoulder and using one to pick up the pot of hot water, which she placed on a stand she coaxed out from behind the chair with her foot. She then threw the towels onto the bed, where she could easily reach them.

Tithen reached out and swept an errant strand of hair away from the man's face. He stirred and his eyes fluttered open. They were glazed and tired, but seemed to see her. She looked at him kindly, the tips of her fingers resting on his temple, paused in the act of sweeping the dark, shoulder length hair from his eyes.

"You are awake, my friend," she said in common. "Le estel…" She stopped as he looked sharply at her as she spoke the Elvish word for 'hope'. "Estel?" he continued to look pointedly at her. "You recognize that word?" Perhaps, she thought, it sounds similar to his name. "I shall call you 'Estel' then, since that is the only thing I have said that has caught your attention. I am called Tithen, by some, although," she mused, "Others call me, Meren, or Adaneth. Why don't you call me Tithen." Estel blinked tiredly at her before he closed his eyes again. She gently stoked his cheek, "Hey, I need you stay awake awhile longer, my friend. Estel, I need you to stay awake. I know you want to go to sleep, but you have to wait just a little while, alright?" He nodded imperceptibly. "Good. Here, try to take a sip of this water."

She held a mug with cold water to his lips and helped him to take a sip. Immediately he started to gag and wretch, the water trickling out of his mouth as he coughed violently.

Aragorn felt sick, and knew that if there were anything left in his stomach, he would be vomiting. But there was nothing, because what was happening now had happened hours ago when he had tried to quench his thirst with water from his water bottle. He had ridded himself of what little there had been in his stomach from lunch almost as soon as he had started riding.

Tithen held him until the spasm passed and he leaned back into the chair. She bit her lip, and considered her possibilities. He needed to drink water, but if he was nauseated, then it would do him no good to pour water down his throat. She opened her healers bag and selected several dried herbs, which she ground into a fine powder with her mortar and pestle. She added enough water to make a paste and stirred it till it was thick and there were no recognizable bits of plant. She sat on the broad arm of the chair.

"Here," she said. "It's something to calm your stomach." She spread a small amount of the paste on Aragorn's lip. "Don't try to eat it. Just lick it off your lip, that way it wont upset your stomach before it has a chance to work." Aragorn did as he was bidden, and before long there was no longer any of the medicine left within the mortar. Tithen put it down on the floor and gave him a small smile. "Good, that should start to work soon. In the mean time, I'm going to clean and patch you up a bit. I've been trained as a healer," She saw his eyelids begin to droop. "Please, stay awake. I can't let you fall asleep yet. Believe me, when I can let you sleep, I will." Aragorn managed a weak smile at those words that he himself had so often said.

Tithen knelt at the foot of the chair and brought the basin of water over to her. She pulled the many blankets back to reveal Aragorn's boots, muddy and wet, their laces swollen so that the knots were no longer discernable. She took a small knife from its sheath at her waist and cut through the laces with little trouble. Her fingers deftly began to work the laces out of their holes and soon she was able to slide the boot off without too much trouble. Without looking, she deftly tossed the boot over her shoulder, where it landed near the door. Tithen had to allow herself a chuckle at the sight of the man's socks—they were dirty, wet, covered in multishaded patches, and holes were wearing through. She slid the wet woolen knitting off Aragorn's foot and threw it near the boot. Laying a towel across her lap, she dipped a rag into the basin, rubbed in a bar of soap she had tucked into her pocket, rang it out until it was cool enough, and began to gently wash Aragorn's feet.

Aragorn was at first shocked, and then comforted by Tithen's action. He could not remember the last time someone had been kind to him. In the south, he received either angry stares because the people thought he should be in the Gondor army, or, if they recognized that he was a Ranger from the north, they sneered at him with distrust and distaste. To have someone not only take him in, not out of financial necessity or a withering sense of compassion, but to treat him with kindness, not to recoil from his touch, to care for him…it warmed his heart, in the same way that the warm water was heating his toes (when was the last time he could _feel_ his toes, let alone have them warm?), and lightened the burden on his spirit, much as the fresh, clean smell of the soap was easing the pounding in his head. As he mused over these things, he was aware that Tithen was singing songs, and reciting children's poems and nonsense rhymes.

"I do not love thee, Healer Fell.

The reason why, I cannot tell.

But this I know, and know full well,

I do not love thee, Healer Fell," she recited as she wrung out the cloth. "Whoever wrote that must have been a very bad mood," she paused. "And very possibly suffering from a blow to the head." Aragorn smiled weakly. She was using what he had heard to be called the "Big sister trick"—telling stories, singing, or rattling off poems to distract someone from pain or discomfort. He had to give this to her, she had mastered the trick very well.

"Good morning merry sunshine,

How did you wake so soon?

You scared the little stars away

And shined away the moon.

I saw you go to sleep last night,

Before I ceased my playing.

Where do you go at night,

And where have you been staying?" She laughed. "I seemed to have forgotten the rest of the rhyme. I suppose it doesn't really matter, seeing as it's nighttime."

Tithen glanced quickly up at her patient. A fleeting smile crossed his lips as she rambled on with her half remembered childhood rhymes and finished washing his feet. She quickly dried them with a towel and wrapped them in small lap blankets before moving on. She looked up at Estel. "Estel, I need to see if you have injured your legs. There is so much blood on your clothes, I cannot tell from where it is coming. I will try to be gentle," she flashed him a mischievous, yet reassuring smile. "Though I cannot guarantee that your clothes will survive unscathed. On the other side of the leaf, it looks like you could use new socks, so perhaps the rest of your clothes could use repairs." She was rewarded by a soft snort of laughter and a crooked grin.

TBC

Further note: The poems here are my variations on ones I remember from Childhood. They are not mine; they belong to whatever poet wrote them. I simply don't know their names.


	3. Innocent Sleep

Innocent Sleep

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Thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter! I would respond to each, but I am in such a rush to get this out, all I will say is that all questions raised in these chapters will be answered and there is lots of Aragorn angst to come. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I will try to get the next one out as soon as possible, but I can't promise I'll be able to keep churning them out this fast. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

Medical Disclaimer: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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"…the innocent sleep,  
Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,  
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath…" Shakespeare, _Macbeth_ Act II, scene ii, lines 35-37

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"Well," Tithen said as she rose from her knees. "That just about finishes that bit. Except for your head, and those wounds on your chest and arm, I've patched you up just about as best as I can. You know,"she said with a grin, "You had better survive this. I shall be very angry if I used all that suture for nothing." She tossed another bloodied rag into the corner that had been become the makeshift clothes hamper. There was already a large pile of bloody clothes, towels, and some of her own outer garments that had gotten too dirty for her to feel comfortable wearing while healing.

It had taken the better part of an hour, but Tithen had finally managed to bandage the wounds on his legs and help him into clean breeches. She had wrapped blankets around him and changed hot water twice. After changing the dirty, bloodied water for the second time, she had slipped fire heated, smooth stones in between the sheets of the bed to warm them, in preparation for Estel, as he had become firmly named in her mind. She had also written a note to herself on a slip of paper and pinned it to her undershirt to not let him up for at least a week. One of his knees was badly bruised and sprained ( it looked as though someone had tried to smash it will a club), and he looked as though he had walked through several patches of long thorned bushes at various times in the past weeks.

As night had deepened, the room had become progressively darker. Tithen lit more of the lamps lining the walls and brought in two more candelabras to better light the bed. She sighed pensively. The man was weak. He had lost a lot of blood, and if his knee was any indication of what the rest of him looked like under what was left of the blood soaked tunics, he very probably had internal injuries she couldn't see. She could feel a fever starting to rise within him, which was only to be expected, but still worrisome.

ovovovovovo

Aragorn had let his eyes close and himself relax. Tithen was skilled, and he was thankful that she was. She knew exactly how to treat bruises and bind wounds with the least amount of pain he could have hoped for. He was used to pain, he had to be, since he often had to stitch up his own wounds, but it was nonetheless nice to _not_ suffer—he was, after all, human. He had admired the way she had sutured the deeper cuts. Her stitches were quick, small and even, and she had used what he believed to be a tightly packed snowball to numb the surronding flesh.

Aragorn had not been able to open his eyes for very long, and when he did, his vision was so clouded that he was unable to see his host very well. So, to distract himself, he had tried to build a picture of her in his mind. He already knew she was fairly tall, perhaps a few inches shorter than he, and that she was very strong. He did not need to see the pots she had brought in to know that they were heavy. He had listened to her voice. It was soft, maternal, and sounded like the waves brushing against the shore; it flowed and ebbed rhythmically, as though her songs had the power to rock him gently on their tide like a boat in a harbor. Her hands were powerful, her fingers were long, but not thin—they were calloused, workers hands, with the delicate skill of the musicien- like the fiddler. Tithen's hands, Aragorn concluded, had the equal power to lay stone and knead bread as they did brush like butterflies over bruises and precisely stitch a wound.

Suddenly, Aragorn was startled out of his reverie by the sudden presence of a mug of cool water at his lips. He was for a moment torn between the burning desire to slake his thirst and sooth his burning throat, and the instinctive repulsion, based on his previous experience with drinking that day.

"It's alright, The medicine I gave you earlier will be working now. Just take a sip, drink slowly, that's it," Tithen whispered coaxingly. Aragorn obeyed, and was pleasantly surprised that after an initial wave of nausea, his stomach settled and placidly accepted the water. "Don't gulp. Just drink it slowly."

The mug was withdrawn from his lips and without the soothing water to ease his throat he began to cough. Immediately, a new mug was offered, this one full of a warm, sweet, creamy drink. He opened his eyes in surprise and cast her a questioning glance. She smiled and held it for him to drink more. "Warm milk and honey. It's better than any herbs I've yet discovered for a sore throat and a cough. Well, actually, I can't claim the credit. My mother taught me how to make this."

All too soon, so far as Aragorn was concerned, this drink too was withdrawn and replaced with another, this time a broth. This was not so appetizing as the water, and Aragorn was thankful that she didn't urge him to drink more than a few mouthfuls of it.

Aragorn once more relaxed into the cocoon of warm blankets and pillows that he had been enveloped in. He so wanted to sleep. He felt Tithen take hold of some of his hair and start to work out most of the dried mud with a damp cloth.

"Go to sleep now, my friend. I will wake you again, I promise you- probably before you would like. Try to get some rest."

Aragorn was grateful. He had fought the weariness that seemed to hang like lead upon him. He let himself drift into a painless, dreamless sleep, as Tithen sang soft lullabies.

"Take the wave now and know that you're free  
Turn your back on the land, face the sea.  
Face the wind now, so wild and so strong.  
When you think of me, wave to me and send me a song.  
Don't look back when you reach the new shore,  
Don't forget what you're leaving me for  
Don't forget when you're missing me so  
Love must never hold, never hold tight but let go…

_Aragorn relaxed in the warmth and peace of sleep. He was drifting into the welcoming darkness that promised rest and escape. _

ovovovovovo

Tithen heard Estel's breathing become slow and even. She had managed to clean most of the dry dirt from his hair in the interim, enough to find a cut on his forehead (previously hidden behind plastered-on hair). She reached out and placed her right hand across his forehead and let herself slide…

_Tithen could see him, drifting in the darkness. She knew this place well, the realm of the spirit, of the conciousness, and every plane of it, from the brightest, daydream, to the darkest, death. They were all degrees of the same peaceful escape of the mind from the trials of the physical house of their bodies. Sleep was but death's counterfeit, and she knew both of them well. She was one of the few people now on Middle Earth who could tread here and know it, map it out, dwell consciously both in her body, and in this world. It was how she had earned her name._

_She reached out, and held him, guided him to a place that was dark enough, deep enough that he would not feel the pain of her cleaning his wounds, but still light enough that she could wake him easily in need._

_Aragorn could see her as well. He saw her as glowing with a gentle light, shimmering in the darkness. He felt her arm wrap around him and hold him._

_"Stay here, my friend. Do not wander, do not stray farther than this."_

_He nodded. Even his spirit was too weary to speak._

_Tithen started to withdraw her arm, but decided to continue to hold him. He was weary, in body and spirit, and the darkness might call to him, just as it had…_

_She saw herself place an arm around him and anchor him were she needed him to be. She knew she could withdraw and tend his wounds while holding him firmly in the darkness, if only for a short while before she would be torn between the two worlds._

She opened her eyes and withdrew her hand. She paused for a moment looking at Estel, and then quickly turned down the bed, and took out the stones that by this time had warmed the bed considerably. She spread towels over the top half of the bed to catch any water, or blood, that might otherwise spoil the sheets. Carefully easing off the layers of blankets off Estel, she threw some over the footboard of the bed and others onto the laundry pile to be washed. Carefully, gently, she slid her arms beneath his shoulders and knees and lifted him. He presented no particular challenge to her strength—even a fully grown man was a small thing compared to a bale of hay or a struggling calf—but she was nonetheless shocked and disturbed by his lack of weight—he should have weighed a good deal more for a man his size.

She carefully lowered him on to the bed and pulled the many blankets up to his waist. Then Tithen straightened up and took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she might uncover beneath the sanguine rags on Estel.

Using a small pair of scissors, Tithen carefully cut through the tunics, going around the areas that had been plastered to his skin with dry blood. Soon, there was little left of what appeared to be three tunics. Scraps lay in a pile at her feet, and there were two large patches of fabric still clinging to Aragorn—one on his right side, and another on his upper left arm. There were also threads of a sleeve snaking out from beneath his left wrist guard. Tithen suspected that he had broken his arm, and that the stiff wrist guard was acting as a temporary splint, and so had left it to deal with last.

Tithen took a small towel and soaked it in the warm water, then folded it into a pad and held it over the stiff fabric on his chest. The water would loosen the dried blood and let her remove the last scraps of tunic without breaking the scab and starting a fresh flow of blood. She waited a few minutes, and then tried to lift a corner. Part of it came away with little trouble, but the deepest layers were still stiff. She reapplied the wet cloth and waited again.

This time the patches came off with relative ease, leaving behind a red jelly in a pit in the flesh of Aragorn. Tithen bit her lip. The wound was deep, and no matter how many times she had peeled rewetted clothes off deep wounds, she had never lost the sensation of instantaneous repulsion and horror of seeing them. Gently, carefully, so as to start not a fresh flow of blood, she took a fresh cloth, dampened it and began to clean the wound, using as little pressure and force as she could. Little by little, she cleaned the congealed blood and dirt from the wound. Using a pair of fine tweezers, she began the delicate process of easing loose threads, grit, and tiny bone shards from the lesion. When she was done, she could see that the sword (or whatever weapon had hit him) had struck partway into at least one of Estel's ribs. The bone had broken about half way through, and had been the source of the bone shards. She thanked the Valar that the ribs had not broken all the way through—it that had been the case, she would have had to worry about punctured lungs, and her patient drowning in his own blood.

Keeping in mind how luck they both were, Tithen washed the blood off her hands and began to pull jars of ointment and vials of antiseptic, and poison antidotes, out of her healers bag, and line them up beside piles of pads and bandages. Taking one of the smaller pads and holding it slightly below the wound, she uncorked several jars of antiseptic and began to dribble small amounts of each into the opening.

_She could feel Aragorn struggling, trying to either reach consciousness and stop the pain, or retreat deeper into unconsciousness. She cursed herself for not bracing him for the sudden agony the antiseptics invariably caused._

_"Stop that!" she shouted at him. He stopped struggling briefly to cast suspicious glance at her before once again struggling to reach the light. She held on to him as well as she could, but she was divided, and her strength was neither fully here, nor there._

_She pulled more of herself into the darkness to hold him there, but she knew that she needed to keep most of herself in the physical world, to heal him. Time was running out._

Tithen started to chant—she did not know what language it was, but she continued her singsong chant, hoping it would help, or do something. She did not even know what she was chanting, or why. She just hoped that it would help. She knew she could not remain like this for long; she could neither continue to heal, nor could she detach herself and reassure Estel that everything was all right. She felt herself being torn between reality and the world of spirits and shadows.

TBC

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A/N Hehe, a cliff hanger! I wont leave you too long with it. Although perhaps an evil cliffhanger will be enough incentive for you readers who read and then don't leave a review to start reviewing! The more reviews I get, the faster I write! 


	4. Shadow And Flame

**Shadows**

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**Warning- graphic descriptions of wounds in this chapter. Those of weak stomachs, you have been warned**.

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**Elafacwen- **Praise from Sir Hugo is praise indeed! (Much Ado about nothing) I'm glad I was able to meet your standard. I agree—why don't more people leave reviews? 

**Viggomaniac**- I'm glad that you are enjoying it. Yes, of course I will explain why Tithen is speaking elvish. I will also explain the enchanted lock, and many other things. Thank you for reviewing!

**QueenoffFlarmphgal**- Thank you for reviewing _twice_! It makes me so happy when I see that someone came back to read my stories! And there is plenty of "sisterly healing", laughs about more "dead" socks, and Aragorn angst. I think the first ten chapters will be nothing but. Oh, dear, I'm giving things away. Oh well.

**Bill the Pony2** and **luinthien**- thank you for the praise. I hope that I continue to please.

**Lindahoyland**- Normally, I would agree with you. A healer would treat serious wounds first, except that, in this case, she has several good reasons for not doing so. First, the wounds were under layers of winter clothes, which had to be gotten rid of first. Second, since she knew the wounds could wait another hour, having waited almost an entire day, Tithen thought it best to gain his trust first, for reasons which will be explained shortly, though not in this chapter, precisely. Thirdly, she wanted to see if he had a concussion, which she couldn't do if he passed out from pain. Please remember, I'm not a doctor, just a frequent patient and a big sister. Furthermore, it is a coincidence that she guessed his name, except that she kept saying, "I hope you survive this" in elvish. Besides, I needed her to call him something! Thanks for the criticism, tempered with much welcome praise.

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Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however. 

Medical Disclaimer: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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Quick recap of last chapter: 

Keeping in mind how luck they both were, Tithen washed the blood off her hands and began to pull jars of ointment and vials of antiseptic, and poison antidotes, out of her healers bag, and line them up beside piles of pads and bandages. Taking one of the smaller pads and holding it slightly below the wound, she uncorked several jars of antiseptic and began to dribble small amounts of each into the opening.

She could feel Aragorn struggling, trying to either reach consciousness and stop the pain, or retreat deeper into unconsciousness. She cursed herself for not bracing him for the sudden agony the antiseptics invariably caused.

"Stop that!" she shouted at him. He stopped struggling briefly to cast suspicious glance at her before once again struggling to reach the light. She held on to him as well as she could, but she was divided, and her strength was neither fully here, nor there.

She pulled more of herself into the darkness to hold him there, but she knew that she needed to keep most of herself in the physical world, to heal him. Time was running out.

Tithen started to chant—she did not know what language it was, but she continued her singsong chant, hoping it would help, or do something. She did not even know what she was chanting, or why. She just hoped that it would help. She knew she could not remain like this for long; she could neither continue to heal, nor could she detach herself and reassure Estel that everything was all right. She felt herself being torn between reality and the world of spirits and shadows.

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And now, back to the story…

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Tithen quickly counted her options. She decided to enter the world of spirits again. As pressing as Estel's need for healing was, it would all be in vain if he approached consciousness and went into shock, or delved deeper and became comatose.

Pressing a pad against the wound with her left hand, she laid her other hand across his forehead and drifted.

_It was strange, seeing herself slowly materialize next to her arm. When she had brought as much as herself as she could, Tithen tried to hold Aragorn in a tighter grip. She would have slapped him, but she couldn't. The only thing that she could do here was hold, and speak. There was no violence here._

_"Estel!" she cried, holding tighter as he struggled. She could not tell whether he was trying to fight or retreat, but either way led to danger. "Estel, listen to me! I am sorry! I did not mean to cause you pain! Stop struggling!"_

_"Estel!" she cried again, and held as tight as she could. "Be still, mellon nîn, be at peace!" Aragorn ceased to struggle and looked at her tiredly._

_"Are you going to struggle?" Aragorn shook his head. He knew it was futile to resist her. "Then I'll let go a bit." Tithen lessened her hold on him and sighed. "I am sorry I hurt you, Estel. I did not mean to cause you pain. I was cleaning you wound, and I needed to make sure that no infection set in. Do you understand?" He nodded. "Do you trust me?" Aragorn nodded slowly. He felt he could trust her, after all she had done. "Good. Mellon nîn, I need you to stay here. If you move, I may not be able to help you. I promise, if I think I will cause you pain, I will come back and warn you. Do I have your word that you will not move?"_

_Aragorn tried to speak, but ended up merely nodding. He was so tired, even in spirit._

_Tithen was worried. The extreme extent of Estel's injuries and exhaustion troubled her. Even with his word, she could not be sure that he would have the strength to fulfill it. Sighing, and praying that this was the wise thing to do, she reached deep within herself, searching until she found the place where her life force was. It glowed like white-hot coals, and it pained her slightly to grasp even the smallest fragment, the tiniest flame and draw it out of herself and place it within Aragorn._

_Aragorn did not know what it was that Tithen did, but for a brief instant it seemed to him that the light radiating from her form wavered, and suddenly he felt a new strength._

_"Thank you," he said. "For everything you have done. You have my word of honor, I shall not stray._

Tithen nodded, and her heart rejoiced to know her sacrifice had been worth it. She gave Aragorn her arm to anchor himself, for she could see that he was still weary, and she gently withdrew, back to the task at hand.

Tithen reached out and grabbed the bedpost with her right hand with a gasp. She leaned against it for a moment, collecting her thoughts and strength. After a minute or so, she shook her head to clear her head and straightened up. She had things to do.

She removed the pad from the wound and checked that in the time she had been gone, it had not started to bleed again. There was only the slightest amount of blood in the wound and she continued on. She poured a small amount of several antitoxins into the wound, in case the blade (probably orc) was poisoned. If there were no poison, they would do him no harm,

Taking a needle and thread, she carefully closed the wound with small, even stitches, leave a few stitches out of one end of the gash to allow fluid to drain away. Next came several balms to help it heal, and ward off infection. She placed several soft pads over the wound, and bound them to his chest with lengths of bandages, tight enough to keep him still and avoid breaking his ribs, and loose enough _not_ to break them and allow him to breathe.

Bit by bit, she eased the towels out from underneath Aragorn and pulled the blankets up over his chest, leaving his left arm out and being careful of his chest wound. She pulled up as many blankets as she thought he could stand on his battered chest and then layered more across his legs and feet. Tithen had never been able to figure out quite why, but for whatever reason if the legs and feet were kept warm, it helped the rest of the body to keep warm.

Tithen turned her attention (at last! her healer's instinct screamed) to Aragorn's arm. She applied a wet cloth to the fabric plastered to his wound and loosely bound it in place with a strip of bandage. She left the room for a moment and returned bearing a blanket full of snow. She set it down on the floor and spread the snow over a quarter of the blanket, and then folded the fabric back over it. She gently placed the broken arm, still splinted by the stiff leather wrist guard, on half of the quartered blanket and folded the other part over it, surrounding Aragorn's forearm with an effective cold pack. She hoped that it would alleviate any swelling and numb the arm. In any case, "chilled to the bone" was exactly what she wanted right now.

She tied a tight tourniquet on Aragorn's arm above the wound, to forestall any excessive bleeding. That was, she mused, another reason chest and abdomen wounds were so bad—there was no way to tie a tourniquet around then to slow the blood flow. But, she reminded herself as she reapplied the wet pad, that was irrelevant to the problems at hand.

Slowly, slowly, she peeled the wet pad and now wet remains of what had been a sleeve away from the wound, once again revealing a gash in the flesh, containing what _looked_ like current jelly and _smelled_ like copper—congealed blood. She again began the process of cleaning the wound, picking out bits of debris, and lifting up a prayer of thanks that the blade had stopped just short of cleaving through a main artery in Aragorn's arm—if it had, he would have bled to death within minutes. As it was, it was a deep, but not terrible wound. It would heal and with a little effort would become as good as new.

Having remembered to warn Estel of what she was doing, she disinfected the wound, stitched it closed and bandaged it. She removed the tourniquet and turned her attention to the forearm.

Tithen eased the "snow pack" off and away from the arm and replaced it with pillows to keep it above Estel's heart. She thought in time to warn Estel of what she was about to do—the pain of having jagged bone grate against raw nerves was worse than antiseptic.

Being as gentle and careful as she could, Tithen removed the wrist guard and threw it onto the chair. She slit the remains of the sleeve with a pair of scissors and exposed the arm. The sight that met her eyes was far from welcome. Despite her suspicions, she had hoped that she was wrong, that Estel had _not_ broken his arm. The dark bruises, odd lump and unnatural angle at which his arm had come to rest dashed any hope that she had had.

Laying two splints on either side of the arm in readiness, Tithen lay her hands over it and closed her eyes, letting her fingers feel where the bones belonged, and the best way to ease them back, without interference from her eyes, which could not tell her much anyway. They could not show her the bone, where the bone fragments were, or reveal to her the jigsaw puzzle that lay beneath the veil of flesh.

With a quick movement, her fingers pushed the bones back together. A soft moan escaped the ranger's lips, and Tithen hurried to make sure that all the bones in his arm were where they should be before wrapping it in bandages and binding it to the splint.

Tithen sighed and rose from where she had been kneeling on the floor next to the bed. She looked at her hands. They were bloody, and wrinkled from spending so much time in contact with water. As she washed and dried them, small, painful cracks appeared on her knuckles, and tiny drops of blood adorned her fingers like so many small rubys.

"Wonderful," she said sarcastically. She checked on her patient once again after cleaning up her healing supplies. His pulse was weak, but steady, his breathing shallow, but regular. He was no longer freezing to the touch, and the mild fever that had begun to burn within him was only to be expected, and nothing to worry about. She did not need a special gift to see that Estel was in a deep, healing sleep. Of course, she warned herself, she would have to wake him up several times before morning, but that could wait. Wait until she had gotten the horses bedded down for the night.

"And get yourself ready for some rest," she thought to herself as she donned a warm cloak and threw another log on the fire. "Do you realize you have been up for nearly 20 hours without rest?"

She walked swiftly the 200 feet to the barn, where her horse Arod had intelligently, and expectedly, led Estel's horse. Arod had learned long ago how to open the barn door from the outside. He had come home too many times with his mistress rushing off with an injured human and leaving him in the yard to _not _have figured out the simple mechanism.

Tithen opened the smaller barn door and lit a lantern that she had carried with her, and from this she lit several other lamps, in order to give herself enough light. The barn was fairly warm, considering the frigid temperatures outside. The hay bales and stacks piled high against the walls and heaped in the loft acted as efficient insulation and trapped the numerous animals' body heat, keeping the barn fairly cozy.

Tithen went over to where the two horses had settled themselves in stalls, less for her sake than for the sake of the stalls were where the food was. She removed the saddle and saddlebags from each horse, putting the saddles on the rack to be cleaned (the next morning, she thought wearily) and the bags near the door to go inside.

Taking a brush, Tithen began to brush down Aragorn's horse.

"Well my friend," she said to him. "Your master has you to thank for saving his life. If not for you, I never would have found him. I am calling him 'Estel'. What do you think? Is that a good name for him?" she looked to Arthad for an answer. He nodded his head up and down enthusiastically. He knew that was one of Aragorn's many names. Whenever he ran into Rivendell with an injured rider, the elves always asked him, "What has Estel been up to?"

"Good," she laughed. "Because I don't know what else to call him. I suppose you could tell me, but I am not yet wise enough to speak your language…although Arod has tried his best to teach me, have you not, mellon nîn?" Arod whickered in agreement. He _had_ been trying for years, but had only gotten his human girl to understand the simplest phrases.

"I'm afraid he thinks me terribly slow and thick," Tithen mourned. "I fear he will have to wait until I can visit the elves before he will have anyone on two legs who can understand what he says." She said nothing more as she finished brushing Arthad. "I wish I could ask you what in Middle Earth your master has been up to, my friend. But I suppose I shall just have to wait until he awakens." Arthad swung his head around to look at her. "Don't fret. Estel has taken a beating, but he'll be fine, if I can keep him still long enough. I suppose he is one of those stubborn people who don't like to stay in bed for long?" Arthad simply snorted, as if to say, "What did you expect?"

Tithen laughed. "That's what I was afraid of. Oh well, such is the lot of a healer. Here, my friend, a reward. Two apples," she said, placing one in the manger and holding the other fruit out in her hand until Arthad took it between his teeth and began to munch happily.

"And you, Arod," she said as she commenced brushing him, "Remind me to listen to you more often." Arod snorted. "I'll try to take your advice. And now my friends I need you to help me think of ways to keep Estel _down_, without tying him to the bed," she stated firmly, as though reading the horses thoughts. She was silent for the rest of the time that she brushed Arod and while she gave him his reward of apples. She said nothing as she checked on all the other animals and blew out the lamps. She walked towards the door with her lantern in one hand and the saddlebags over her shoulder.

"Well," she said as she massaged the back of her neck wearily, "I'll think of something in the morning. There has to be a way to make him rest." Had Tithen looked back as she left the barn, she would have seen the horses roll their eyes. They knew humans—it would be easier for the girl to climb Caradhras than keep the man still.

TBC


	5. Dawn Comes Too Early

**Dawn Comes Too Early

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**viggomaniac**- I agree, I love a helpless Aragorn. Who are they? Whoever "they" are, they seem to run our lives. "They" dictate how I should write a bibliography, how we should set up a library… Off track. I'm writing as fast as I can!

**Bill the Pony2**- I'm on your favorites! I'm flattered!

**QueenofFlarmphgal**- You are so kind! A writer wishes all her readers were as pleased as you. I hope you like this chapter!

**Caracandal**- Thank you, mellon nîn! I know how busy you are, and your approval means a lot. I hope you enjoy this too! Orange heart, my sister.

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**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

**Medical Disclaimer:** no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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Tithen stood at the top of the stairs, pondering a problem that was pleasantly pointless. There was nothing at stake in her decision, only a philosophical debate on which choice would grant her the most amusement. The question at hand was, how should one get one feather mattress from point A(The top of the stairs) to point B (the bottom of the stairs)? From point B, the way to point C (the healing room) was obvious, but from point A to B, there were so many delicious options.

She could simply shove it and watch it flop down the stair, landing with a comical _fwump_ at the landing. No, too noisy, she thought.

She could slide it down the stairs, or better yet, slide it down the stairs with her on it. She giggled like a small girl and then stopped herself. While definitely the most fun option, it also included the most risk to herself, namely that she would add so much mass to the mattress that she would ride the mattress straight into the wall. She did not need that. She would try that another time.

This time, she settled on the least amusing, but the most silent and safe. She leaned it against the stairway wall and walked alongside as gravity pulled the bulky mattress towards the earth, which, at least so far as Tithen was concerned, was the first floor landing.

When they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, she let the mattress fall to the floor with a flop that somehow made her feel better and kicked it down the hall. By no means the most efficient way, she mused as she gave it a particularly badly aimed kick and sent it scooting into the wall. But it was a wonderful cure for a stressful day.

Tithen negotiated the passage of her mattress through the door and placed it near the fireplace and near to one wall. She liked to have a wall within arm's reach when she slept, though she wasn't sure why. This position also happened to allow her to keep an eye on Estel without being so close as to frighten him if he woke in the night (or what's left of it, she thought ruefully.)

She quickly made up a bed for herself with sheets she had brought down from her room and blankets from the cupboards. On top, she spread an old, handmade quilt of intricate design and many delicately woven colors and patterns. It was generally colder on the first floor than on the second, and on the floor itself, it was colder than in a bed.

Tithen mulled over this and also what she would make for breakfast the next day, and when she would find the time to wash and mend and clean and cook while tending to a half-dead ranger and other mundane, but important things necessary to keeping her household, small though it was, running as smoothly as the Anduin.

Satisfied with a lumpy, nest like bed for the night, she checked on Aragorn again before she went upstairs to clean herself up for bed. He was sleeping peacefully, both in body and spirit. Tithen feared that the fever would continue to rise within him, so that by dawn she would have to fight it. But for now, she felt she could catch at least an hour's worth of sleep before getting up, and waking him to make sure he still could.

Tithen dragged herself up the stairs again, pulling off her outer tunic as she stumbled wearily into her chamber. She sighed as she undid the lacings and buttons to her skirt and overdress, and shivered as she stripped off her warm shirts, dividing them into clean and dirty piles as she went. Dressed in camisole and underskirts, she walked down the hall to the bathing room, mentally thanking her forefather who had been clever enough and enough of a tinkerer to install not only running water, but heaters for that running water, that used the heat from the chimney network to keep the water warm.

She gazed longingly at the tub—she wanted so badly to draw a hot bath and sink into it, let the water ease off the grime, and soak away the tension in her shoulders, not to emerge until she was as red as a tomato and wrinkled as a dried apple slice. But she shoved these lovely thoughts from her mind. She knew it wasn't wise, tired as she was, to get into a tub of seductively warm water; she could fall asleep all too easily and drown, or breathe in enough water to cause her a good deal of trouble. Tithen contented herself with washing her aching feet and raw hands in the sink, and rubbing a warm, wet washcloth over her face and neck. It was not the best, but it was better than flopping into bed completely filthy.

Tithen went back to her room and pulled a warm, wool nightshift over her head. She also slipped into a loose wool skirt, to add another layer of warmth and let her appear to be dressed, for her own comfort. She didn't like to look like she was caught unprepared. Her hair, she decided, could wait until morning. She was tired, and besides, it _was_ in a braid.

oxoxoxoxoxo

Tithen flopped onto her bed and pulled the blankets over her head. After a moment, she poked her head and a hand out and smashed her pillows into a comfortable shape. She glanced at her charge one last tie before mumbling "good night," and promptly falling asleep.

oxoxoxoxoxo

She was not particularly happy. Stupid roosters. Why did they have to make such a racket at such a blastedly early hour? She was also irritated with the sun. Dawn, she believed, had purposely come too early this morning, when she had only gotten to bed at three in the morning.

Tithen rolled onto her back and let go of a soft groan. Holding a man onto a racing horse for more than six hours, kneeling and standing in uncomfortable positions for interminable lengths of time, and lack of sleep had all made her muscles ache and her head sore. The fact that she had had to divide herself for so long, and divide her strength, had all made the situations worse. None of her complaints were more than a good night's sleep and a few days of rest would take care of, which was more than she could say of Estel's troubles, but she did not have days, or even hours to revive herself, because she had to tend to Estel.

Tithen stared up at the dark, carved beams on the ceiling and tried to assess Estel's health. She had woken him up twice in the three and one half hours since she had sought after sleep, rising each time the clocks chiming in other parts of the house had woken her. She was not sure whether to be worried, or relieved by what he had said to her upon being woken.

The first time, he had said nothing, merely looking at her with tired eyes until she had bid him sleep once more, whereupon he did so.

The second time, he had rolled his head away from her voice and mumbled, "ss too early," and upon her insistence that he wake, had murmured, "don't wanna go lessons. Tired." She was encouraged by the fact that he had spoken, but troubled by his disorientation and confusion. Tithen tried to tell herself that it was because she had woken him from a deep sleep, but a small nagging voice in the back of her head warned that it could just as well be the sign of a head injury, or fever, or sickness yet to surface.

Tithen sighed and rolled out of bed, taking some of the covers with her. She kicked herself free, shot a glance over at Aragorn to make sure that he was still asleep (and breathing), shoved her feet into a pair of sheep's fleece slippers, threw another log on the fire, and began the process of beginning the day.

She wandered blearily into the kitchen and brought the embers in the fireplace blazing to life, feeding them with kindling and logs. She filled a large kettle at the sink and set it over the fire. Raiding the pantries, Tithen brought out a large bowl of dried fruits—apples, pears, peaches, various wild berries—and chopped them until they were a fine, sticky mass. She added the fruit into the pot of simmering water along with some cornstarch she had moistened into a paste. After cooking for an hour or more, she knew it would become a smooth, fruit mash, soft enough for the weakened man to swallow, that could be thickened or thinned at need. Aragorn would want sweet things at first, because they were easiest to eat. Then, providing he followed the pattern of every other patient of hers, he would crave salt, and the sign that he was on the mend would be that he wanted savory things, meat soups and stews.

Putting a lid on the pot to ensure that it would not boil dry, and pouring hot water from a small kettle that always hung by her fire onto tea leaves to make a strong cup of the reviving brew, Tithen headed upstairs. She looked in on Estel as she passed the door to see him sleeping peacefully, as though it were a warm spring morning after planting was finished.

oxoxoxoxoxo

Tithen drew a tepid bath. She wished it could be warm, hot even, but if it were, she would rapidly lose track of time and she could not afford that. This morning, she needed it only to be warm enough to get rid of the smell. Not the smell of horses or sweat, for they were good smells, not pleasant, but good—the same smells that she knew after a day's planting or harvest. No, the smell she wanted to wash down the drain was the coppery, sickly sweet smell of blood. There was no time, no image in her mind, no memory with which she could associate the smell of blood with something good. If she could smell blood, or taste blood, someone, or herself, was bleeding, wounded, hurt, that the life was fleeing from the veins where it belonged to where it was not supposed to be.

She scrubbed her skin with lavender soap until she was red, freed of the smell of gore, and the water had turned milky white. She dried herself and dressed in a warm, cream colored shirt, pale brown tunic, and brown skirt. Over everything, she layered a sleeveless overdress. It would be cold everywhere in the house except the kitchen and the healing room; she would have no time to keep the fires burning in other parts of the house.

ovovovovovo

_Aragorn wanted to stay were he was. He didn't want to follow the voice that called him towards the light and consciousness. With consciousness came pain, pain that he did not want to deal with yet. He was enjoying it here, where it was dim, quiet and pain-free. He wanted to stay, maybe even to retreat further into the darkness._

_But the voice called. The same voice that had woven itself through his dreams. Were they dreams? Aragorn tried to collect them, and separate the real from the unreal. He remembered orcs, orcs attacking him, him winning, but he was hurt. That was real. He remembered riding, being cold, and dizzy. That was real too, although it seemed distant, somehow less real than the orcs. Someone came, he remembered. A young woman, with strong arms, calloused hands and gentle fingers. She had rode with him, taken him to a house. This, too, seemed somehow unreal, but he knew it was. She had washed his feet. That was real. He had been so shocked by it, it was so unlikely it could only be real._

_She had called him Estel, made him feel as though he were home in Rivendell. What had she called herself? She had said many names, and the only one of which he seemed to be able to connect with her made no sense, "Tithen". She was not little, yet none of the other names had been said more than once._

_Pain. Unbearable, burning, stabbing pain that had threatened to strangle him. This memory was searingly clear. He had struggled, to fight and to get away, he did not recall which had been uppermost. Something had held him. No, someone had held him. Tithen. She had held him still. This made no more sense than her name to Aragorn. How could she possibly hold his mind, speak and comfort his spirit as though she were speaking and holding him in body? He had felt the same thing with elves, his father Elrond in particular, but never had he met a human with this gift. And yet, she had. She had held him in her strong arms, told him that all was right, that she had caused the pain when she had cleaned the wound in his chest. She had begged him not to struggle, or to stray into the darkness. She had asked if he trusted her, if he would obey her wishes. He had agreed. Then something strange happened._

_Warmth and strength, hope and light, they had all entered into him in an instant. Aragorn did not know what Tithen had done. She had given him the strength he needed, and the hope that kept him fighting through the night, when the darkness called. She seemed to be tired, wearied after he had gained strength, as though it were _her_ strength that he had been given. She had returned twice more, to warn him when she cleaned the wound on his arm, and set a bone. He had not realized he had broken his arm, so distracted had he been by the blood flowing from his side._

But the voice called. It was insistent that he come up towards the light to meet it. It called him back to reality, away from dreams and memories, from the past to the present. Aragorn did not truly wish to obey it, but knew that he had to follow. He felt drawn to the light of consciousness, and as he was, the clarity of his thoughts faded as the pain broke across him like a wave. Pain in his chest, his arm, his head, his throat. They stole those clear thoughts from him, even as he fought for the light.

ovovovovovo

Tithen sat on the edge of Estel's bed, one hand resting lightly on his right hand and the other smoothing his hair away from his face, gently tucking his long dark hair behind his ears and stoking his cheeks as though he were a child. She was mildly concerned that he had not woken at her bidding, as he had done before, but was encouraged when his breathing began to deepen, signaling that he was beginning to awaken.

"Estel," she said sweetly, "It's time to wake up, mellon nîn." He stirred slightly, but still did not awaken. "Estel," she commanded firmly, "Wake. Morn has broken. It is time to wake. Awake, Estel."

Aragorn seemed to shake his head slightly, and a worried look passed over his features. He began to murmur something, so quietly that Tithen had to strain to hear.

"No, ada, I _swear_. I didn't put the frog in Elladan's bed, it was Elrohir! I didn't do it!" he insisted to someone in his dream. Tithen smiled. He was caught up in a dream of, no doubt, a misdeed of his childhood, a pleasant escape for someone who had been as badly hurt as he.

Tithen smoothed her hand over Aragorn's hot forehead and rested her fingers on his cheek. "Estel, wake up," she said soothingly, and then changed to a teasing tone, "I do not care _who_ put the frog in Elladan's bed, since I do not know him, and I am most certainly not your father. Wake up, Estel, and look at me, see where you are."

ovovovovovo

Aragorn woke with a start. What had he been saying? His eyes snapped open, only to snap shut again as the world swam in and out of focus, and the room spun around him. He tried to collect his thoughts, which wasn't easy because of the ache in his head and the white-hot daggers that lanced though his arm and chest. Had he just said out loud what he had said in his dream?

ovovovovovo

Tithen smiled as he finally opened his eyes, and then frowned as he quickly shut them again. She once again began to gently stroke his hair, unobtrusively massaging his temple to ease the headache and dizziness.

"Shh. Don't move yet, Estel. Everything will be fine. The room will stop moving in a moment, and your vision will clear, I promise," she murmured soothingly. "Open your eyes, slowly, that's it. Now, can you follow my finger?" she asked, and watched his eyes as they sluggishly followed her fingers, left, right, up and down. He was a little slow in reacting, but that was expected. He was tired, he had lost a lot of blood. All in all, she was fairly happy with his condition. If only his fever hadn't risen quite so quickly.

"Well," she said as she put her hand down and sat on the edge of the bed as though she were having a pleasant conversation over a cup of tea, "I'm glad you could join me this morning, Estel. You had me quiet frightened last night. Do you remember my name?"

Aragorn nodded. At least, he thought he remembered her name. "Tithen," he croaked, his voice raspy and hoarse. His throat was dry and sore. It felt as though someone had burned his throat with liquid fire and then scrubbed it with sandpaper. The pain pulsed with his heartbeat, sending throbs of pain up and down his throat and into his ears.

Tithen nodded curtly. "Good. You do remember my name." She rose and went over to a table, pouring out a glass of water. She returned to sit on the edge of the bed, and placed the water on the side table. "Here, don't _you_ try to sit up. Let me do all the work."

As much as Aragorn loathed being helpless, he did not argue, and gratefully acquiesced. Tithen slide her arm behind one of his pillows, and supporting his head and chest, eased him into a semi-upright position, quickly stuffing more pillows behind him to keep him there. Apparently, she was aware, even as he was, that he was incapable at the moment to sit up without support. His chest protested against the movement, but not nearly as much as it would have screamed had he tried to move himself. Tithen had raised him slowly and smoothly, never jerking him.

Tithen outwardly smiled that Estel had not protested or tried to move himself, but inwardly she was troubled. She knew enough rangers, and she had treated enough of them, to know that they were the stubborn kind of people who would refuse help unless they were in so much pain they were near delirium, or they were unconscious. The fact that Estel hadn't protested to her helping him, but was obviously not delirious, was disturbing.

Tithen pressed the mug of cold water to Aragorn's lips, firmly keeping his good arm on the bed with her left hand.

"Drink. Slowly, that's it. Sip it, you don't want to start coughing," she said as Aragorn greedily drank the water, sending cascades of cool relief over his painful, parched throat, momentarily ignoring the waves of nausea that surged and then slowly receded. "I see I was right to spike it."

Aragorn cast her a suspicious glance. What had she put in the water?

Tithen placed the cup of water on the side table and began to straighten the bedclothes. "Don't worry, it's not a sleeping drug. It's just something to calm your stomach, in case you drank too fast," she said, giving him a pointed look.

Aragorn visibly relaxed, obviously glad to be able to stay awake for a while, and so Tithen proceeded with her next question.

"Well, you know my name, but I still don't know yours. What do you call yourself, my friend?"

Aragorn thought quickly. She had already, by an incredibly lucky chance, stumbled upon his childhood name, and he did not want to give her his real name, until he knew her better, and if he got into trouble, he probably would not respond to the name he called himself in Gondor, which was too long to say right now anyway.

"Estel," he whispered, his voice still raspy despite the water.

Her face registered mild surprise. "Hmm," she responded slowly. "That's…strange…lucky…an incredible coincidence, really. Or, perhaps someone is looking after you, mellon nîn."

She stood up, sighed, and pushed wisps of hair out of her face. Standing with her hands on her head, she looked down at Estel and asked, "How do you feel?"

"Fine," came the dry, and blatantly false answer.

Tithen stood there for a moment, then let her hands fall to her sides with an exasperated sigh. "Alright, we'll go about this another way. _I_ tell you how you feel and you fill in anything I left out."

Aragorn elegantly raised an eyebrow at her, a trick he had learned from his elven foster father and brothers.

Tithen calmly returned the gesture. "Normally," she said, turning to the fireplace, "I would enjoy staring pointedly at you and carefully wheedling out how you _really_ feel, but this morning, I am tired, your throat is sore, and I don't think either of us feels awake enough to enjoy the humor such a contest of wills would likely provide." She began to fill two bowls full of the fruit mash she had made earlier and set on the hearth to keep hot. "That being said, your chest feels like an orc is twisting a crooked blade in it, your arm feels like it is on fire, you ache all over, there is a cave troll trapped in your head and trying to bang its way out, and the world is probably still spinning. As I said before, your throat is raw, your lips are cracked and bleeding, and you are freezing cold," She looked up from where she knelt by the hearth. "Did I miss anything?"

Aragorn shook his head slightly, and then decided that that was a bad idea.

"Good. Now, having exposed your weaknesses, I will now not mention them again except at need, and after you are better, forget they ever were," she said, as a way of making him feel more comfortable. _She _did not like having her weaknesses exposed, she knew _he_ hated it, but she had needed to establish that he couldn't hide behind such a transparent façade with her.

Aragorn licked his dry lips and mulled this over in his mind. She had exposed just about all his weaknesses, and then stopped just short of apologizing for it. She had, however, missed one thing. He also felt as though an oliphaunt were sitting on his chest. But he had revealed enough of his weaknesses to her. Suddenly, a thought struck him out of nowhere in particular.

"You're not," he said hoarsely, rolling his head to one side so he could see her bending over a pot on the hearth. She paused in the act of ladling something into a bowl to look at him.

"Not what?" she asked, puzzled.

"Little," Aragorn clarified. Tithen stared blankly ahead for a moment, then blinked. She laughed as she finished ladling the fruit mash into the bowl, and brought them both over to the bedside table. She sat on the edge of the bed and absentmindedly fussed with her hair for a minute, trying to make several flyaway locks of hair stay up and out of her face.

"I guess my name doesn't make a lot of sense," she said, picking up a bowl and spoon. Aragorn tried to reach out and take them with his good arm, but Tithen pushed his hand away and ignored his feeble protest. Stirring the mash to cool it, she slowly began to help Aragorn eat the soft warm fruit, distracting him with her unfolding tale, and hints at others. "Or, at least, it doesn't make sense if you don't know my _full_ name. When you know the other half of the name, it makes sense," she paused. "I'll make you a deal. I'll tell you the story of how I got my name, which is fairly strange, when you are well enough to eat a fresh-baked scone for breakfast, instead of fruit mash. Is it a deal?"

Aragorn swallowed thickly. "Big Sister Trick?" he asked with a crooked smile, which Tithen returned.

"Of course it is part of the Big Sister Trick. An important past of that trick is the harmless, but interesting, bribe," she gave him a mock serious frown, which threatened to turn into a smile at any moment. "But I warn you, I also know the Sergeant-Major trick, and the Overworked Healer's trick. I don't like to use them. Don't make me!"

Aragorn returned her mock serious frown. He knew of the other two healer tricks as well. The Sergeant-Major trick was basically saying "Do what I say or else. I say rest. Rest!" The Overworked Healer's trick was to simply drug the patient. He would avoid giving her cause to employ either.

Tithen smiled at him gently. "Well then, how about I tell you how I got one of my other names as compensation for waiting?" Aragorn nodded. Any distraction would be welcome, and her voice reminded him of the voices of elves singing in the distance, at home, in Rivendell.

"My given name, the one my parents gave to me, is 'Meren'. 'Joy'," which, she thought to herself, seems as strange to one who knows me as "Tithen" does to one who knows me not. "My mother had had my two brothers before me, and as happy as she and my father were to have sons, they also wanted a daughter, a child who would not be so likely to go off to war and get killed. My father hoped that I would be a calming influence on my brothers, who seemed unable to get through a year without breaking a bone, or getting into other serious trouble. My mother hoped for this as well, but she wanted, too, a daughter to pass her heirlooms to, and to learn the secret recipes that had been passed down through our family. Anyway, on the day I was born, the midwife said to my mother 'it is a daughter!' and my mother cried out "Meren!" and my father, who had been listening at the door since he hear the cries of a child, burst in and at the same time as my mother cried, 'Meren!' The midwife, who did not speak elvish, thought that my parents had chosen a name for a daughter, and so pronounced my name to be 'Meren', to which my parents agreed. Strangely enough, the birth of a sister was not joyous news to my brothers. Though, I think they got used to me," she finished the story shortly after she finished helping Aragorn and now began to feed herself.

Aragorn was thankful for her story. It was the kind of family story which he had always loved to listen to as a child, and it was a wonderful distraction from his pain and helplessness.

Abruptly, the oliphaunt on his chest started to dance a jig and he began to cough, deep, hacking coughs that would not stop, that sent shock waves of pain through his entire body, jolting his arm, stabbing his wounds, and sending the cave troll in his head banging about from side to side.

Tithen instantly put her food down and helped Aragorn to sit up more and lean over a bit. She gently rubbed his back in calming, steady circles, trying to ease the spasm that racked his body. She whispered calming words, intoned all the words she knew to ease the coughs that threatened to tear Estel apart inside, to rip open his wounds, to break his fragile ribs.

Tithen remained outwardly calm, but inside she was panicking. This was what she had feared the most.

**AN:** Another cliffie, evil little me! It's not a big cliffhanger, but maybe it will convince more of you to review (cough cough). Also, sorry it's taken me so long to post lately. Life (i.e.- tests, big nasty, two day tests) caught up with me, so it's taken some time away from writing frantically. However, as compensation, this chapter is about 60 longer than most of mine. So, please, don't yell at me, just go review!


	6. The Raveled Sleave of Care

**The Raveled Sleave of Care.**

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**A/N: ** For anyone noticing the strange spelling, it's because it's based upon a quotation from _Macbeth_ about sleep: "That knits up the raveled sleave of care…" You can just start expecting my titles to include Shakespeare. Also, I went sort of description crazy in this chapter. So, I hope you enjoy it, but I will try to cut back a little. I know _too_ much description gets boring. : )

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**viggomaniac**: Even a hurried review gives me great joy and spurs my muse to great attempts! By all means, write hurried reviews!

**QueenofFlarmphagal**: It fills me with hope and happiness to know that I continue to please. I'm glad you liked Aragorn's reaction to her query, and her response. It was designed to add a little light-heartedness to this rather dark tale. Enjoy Chapter 6!

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Tithen bit her lip until it bled, bright red drops appearing on her dry lips like the dew appears on the morning grass. She had to get Aragorn to stop coughing. He had been coughing too long now. He needed to breathe, needed to breathe in new air, to fill his lungs slowly. He needed to lie still, preferably flat, his chest wound would not take much more. Tithen was afraid that his ribs might have already fractured under the strain and pressure.

ovovovovovo

Aragorn desperately tried to control his breathing, to stop the spasms that had him coughing so terribly that he felt he was coughing the very life out of himself. He would take a hurried breath, the rush of air over his raw throat sending pain everywhere, like the fire that spreads when an oil lamp is broken. As soon as he had partially filled his lungs with air, with life, the oliphaunt that had sat on his chest all night began its frantic dance again, forcing his chest to contract in quick, painful, rapid jerks. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Aragorn could hear Tithen whispering, and feel her rubbing his back in soothing circles. If only that simple motion, so like the motion of his father's hands, could smooth away his coughs, as Elrond had done the time he had had a terrible chest cold after straying into the northern mountains in winter, and had coughed endlessly for days. However, then, he hadn't had a nearly broken rib.

ovovovovovo

Tithen tried to decide what to do. The first thing to do was to get him to stop coughing, but now that the spasm had him in its grip, there was little she could do beyond what she was already doing. And after he stopped coughing? she asked herself. What would she do then? Should she give him something to suppress his cough? That would, unfortunately, only stop him from breaking his ribs, if, indeed, he hadn't already done so.

She shuddered, even as she drew Aragorn's head into her chest, to give him some stability, something to lean on while they waited for the choking cough to pass. She hated with a passion the herbal tea that suppressed coughing, hated it almost as she hated orcs. It was useful of course, and it was indispensable when it came to treating some illnesses, or if one had broken ribs and a cough, but she still loathed it. It did not so much as ease the cough as it made it impossible _to_ cough. You didn't suffocate, didn't wretch as the coughs strangled you, but instead you felt as though you were being crushed, as though a cave troll were squeezing the life from you, like an inexperienced healer had wrapped your chest in bands of cloth so tight, you couldn't breathe.

ovovovovovo

Slowly, slowly, after what seemed to be an eternity to Aragorn, the oliphaunt tired, and after a few harsh, rattling gasps for air, he stopped coughing. He was exhausted, dark spots swam before his eyes and shadows crept around the edge of his vision. The pain in his side and arm was growing unbearable, like white-hot knives being cruelly twisted in his flesh. The cave troll in his head had resumed its pounding; it felt as though his head were going to burst.

ovovovovovo

Tithen let Aragorn continue to rest his head on her shoulder and lean on her for support as she continued to gently rub his back in soothing circles, carefully avoiding the area near to the wound in his side, which was undoubtedly sore.

She wanted so badly to reach out to him, to take his pain, his weariness, to carry some of his burden on _her_ shoulders. She felt helpless, watching him gasp for air and pain, his face contorted in agony. She could give him rest, some strength, she could help to ease fear, but she could not take his pain. She had only her skill with herbs to help ease the torture he was going through.

It was happening again. She had more now…she had had more than anyone else then…but it was not enough…not then…not now…she was helpless…she could but watch…

"STOP!" her mind screamed. "DON'T DO THAT! NOT NOW!"

Tithen took a deep breath. She could not think about that now. Aragorn needed her, just like…no, stop… later…Aragorn needed her, and that was enough. For now.

She wrapped her arms around him, one hand supporting his head, so as not to jolt him as she carefully eased him down on to the pillows once more, and pulled more blankets up about him. She lay her fingertips across his forehead…the fever was burning hotter. She would have to give him something for it. Fevers, low fevers, were good, they helped to kill the sickness, like cauterizing a wound, but too high a fever, and it could damage the heart.

Tithen rose in a fluid motion, so as to not shake the bed, and set a small pan of honeyed milk on the hearth to warm. Aragorn could see her out of the corner of his eye. He was so cold; he was shivering, sending shockwaves of pain everywhere. His throat was on fire, his stomach churned. He felt as though he were being crushed under a boulder with glass shards all around, as though he were frozen in ice, yet there was a fire in his flesh.

Warmth. Aragorn could feel the warmth enfolding him as Tithen lay several more blankets on top of him, firmly tucking them about him, but not near his wounds. He watched as she unfolded one with almost reverence, and lay it over him with loving care, smoothing out the wrinkles and tucking the edges into the bed. She smiled a soft smile. It was a nice smile, Aragorn thought. Yet, there was something…

"My grandmother made this," she said, as she folded the bottom corner under the mattress. "When my mother was a girl. See the design?" she traced her finger over the many triangles and squares of fabric. Aragorn looked at it, it was fascinating, colorful, and distracting. At first it appeared to be what he had heard Arwen called a "crazy quilt", a quilt made from left over scraps from dresses, robes, other quilts, and sewn together with no particular pattern or theme into a colorful fruit salad of a blanket. But as he looked at it, Aragorn thought he could see a subtle pattern woven through the oddly matched scraps.

Tithen smiled wider as she saw Aragorn's attention caught by the color and intricate pattern. This was good, and precisely what she had wanted when she had pulled the quilt out of the closet. The fact that all quilts had a story behind them was a bonus.

"My mother broke her leg one winter when she about ten, and my grandmother made this quilt to keep her occupied. My mother liked to watch her sew," Tithen explained as she set about mixing up herbs to ease Aragorn's cough and fever. "My grandmother didn't like to use set patterns. She always said that _anyone_ could make a checkerboard quilt, or sew a grandmother pattern, but _no one_ could copy a pattern she made herself." Tithen took the milk from the hearth and poured it into a bowl. People were less likely to gulp from a bowl, for some reason. "Every quilt she made, was different, because each time, so my grandmother said, _she_ was different. She had had another child, she had seen another winter, helped with another harvest."

Aragorn listened to Tithen weave the tale, her voice lulling him. He didn't even resist as she held a bowl of sweetened milk to his lips and told him to drink. The mixture soothed his throat, coating it, protecting it from the harsh air. It warmed his chest, easing the ache. She withdrew the bowl, and when he drank again it tasted different, and he knew she had added herbs.

"Do you think you could stay awake a bit longer?" she asked, placing the bowl on the table. Aragorn nodded, slightly. He knew that speaking would most likely set off a fresh fit of coughing.

"Good," she said rising. She stared off into the distance for a moment, and then looked at him with a questioning glance. "Do you like music?"

Aragorn was puzzled, but nodded. It was impossible to grow up in Rivendell and _not_ enjoy music.

"Good," she repeated, and left the room. When she returned, he could see that she carried a small wooden flute or pipe. From behind the bed, he could hear soft scraping noises, and eventually she came into his peripheral vision, positioning a rocking chair in front of the fire and settling herself in it. Aragorn turned his head on the pillow so that he could see her better. She put one end of the instrument to her lips and began to play. At first, Aragorn was surprised to hear the pleasant sound emanating from the flute—after growing up among elves, and elvish instruments, most man-made instruments sounded harsh in comparison. But either this flute had been made by a master, or Tithen's skill with it was so great as to overcome its failings.

The first tune she played was fast, and upbeat, possibly a jig. He listened with pleasure as she trilled low in the register and then shot up suddenly to play rapidly in the upper range, and watched as her foot moved in rhythm, barely keeping pace with the song and all the emotions and thoughts that go through a musician's mind as he plays ran across her face. Aragorn half-closed his eyes and pictured in his mind bright spring days, sunlight playing across babbling brooks. Then, though he could not tell where one song ended and the next began, the music was slower, but not much, and it was still joyful and happy.

After a while, the music stopped abruptly. Aragorn was startled, having fallen into reverie, and began to cough a little. Tithen was immediately at his side, with a cup of water at his lips. Aragorn sipped it, and lay back on the pillows. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a fleeting look in Tithen's eyes. He wasn't sure what it was, but something told him to remember that look, that it was somehow important, but he was too tired to take any real notice of it for the moment.

"I'm sorry, mellon nîn," Tithen apologized. "You want to sleep, no doubt. Here," she held a cup to Aragorn's lips and he drank. It was the milk again, but with different herbs. "It's a painkiller, and it will help you sleep. Not _put_ you to sleep, understand, just help you relax," she smiled. "If it doesn't, let me know. I am gifted in that way."

Aragorn gave her a wan smile and closed his eyes. He could feel the herbs beginning to work, dulling the aches, taking the edge off the pain. Tithen had begun to play again. He listened to the sound of her flute as it wove slow, gentle melodies, lullabies, quiet songs of eventide, let the music flow around him, cradle him, rock him to sleep on its waves of song.

ovovovovovo

Tithen continued to play long after she had seen Aragorn's eyes flutter close and his breathing slow, becoming shallow and even. She continued to play lullabies for a time, pulling old tunes up from the depths of her memory, other times improvising, and painting pictures of stars and rest with the flute, as a painter does with a brush. Gradually though, almost imperceptibly, the song changed, the melodies becoming plaintive, then sorrowful, and then, mournful.

oxoxoxoxoxo

It was late that night, as Aragorn began to drift to sleep again, seeking the respite that unconsciousness gave him from suffering, that he realized what it was that he had seen in Tithen's eyes as she had seen him begin to cough again.

Terror. Horror. Guilt.

They had all been there, lurking in the depths of her eyes. The kind of terror he had seen in the eyes of those who had been tortured and see a sight that reminds them of their pain. Horror, like that he had seen in the eyes of children who watch their parents die. And guilt…he had never seen such anguish, such self-blame in the eyes of any mortal.

But he thought all this as he drifted to the land of peace and rest. He did not recall his revelation when he awoke, and would not for some time yet to come. They settled at the back of his mind, where a mournful melody wove itself around them.

TBC

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**A/N** I know this chapter is a little short, but it was such a great place to end, and my last chapter was kinda long. I am typing Chapter 7 as quickly as may be! 


	7. Fire and Ice

**Fire and Ice

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**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

**Medical Disclaimer:** no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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**viggomaniac**: I'm glad you are enjoying it. You're first reviews had me a bit worried I could not pull this story off, but your words are very encouraging.

**QueenofFlarmphgal:** I'm glad you liked the quilt-trick. Elrond should learn that trick, but somehow, I don't imagine elves making blankets quite so colorful as Tithen's grandmother.

**Bill the Pony2**: Happy to oblige. Is this a quick enough update?

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**A/N**: Here's chapter 7 in all its shortness and glory. This is probably the only time I will update this quickly, so don't get used to it. This time, you can thank a writer's empathy for her characters. I seem to have caught whatever Aragorn has, and it has prompted me to write this, while waiting for inspiration for a paper. Enjoy! (Achoo! Cough, Cough. Shiver)

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Pain. There was so much pain. Unbearable, searing, wrenching, agony. How long had it been? Hours? Days? Years? Ages? Eons? How long had he lain here, weak, defenseless, helpless?

Weak. That one word cut through Aragorn, hurting him more than all his other wounds. He was one of the Dunadaîn! He was _the_ Dunadan. He was a ranger. To be a ranger was to be a protector. A protector protected the weak. How could he be a ranger if he was weak? If he could not even lift a cup to his lips to quench his thirst?

Air. He needed air. Aragorn felt that he would gladly have suffered all the pain in the world if he could only have one breath of air. He was being crushed, strangled, pounded, smothered. He could only breathe in painful gasps.

Ice. He was trapped in ice. Why hadn't Tithen found him yet? Where was the quilt her grandmother had made? He was so cold. He was shivering, his teeth chattered.

Fire. His throat was on fire. An orc had forced oil down his throat and set it ablaze. All the water in the world would not quench it. His arm, his side was burning. Was someone cauterizing it? No, it had gone on too long.

ovovovovovovo

Tithen frowned as she bathed Aragorn's face with a damp cloth. She had done all she could for him, going so far as to bath his wounds and chest with water infused with dried aethelas. They had helped, but before long, his fever and ragged breathing had returned.

Two days had passed since she had brought him to her home. Two day's of trying to make him comfortable, of coaxing him to eat, and drink, of slipping him herbs whenever she could. And still, the fever burned, his breathing became harsh, rattling, he coughed deep, dry coughs, his wounds did not heal, because they were disturbed, because he was ill.

Aragorn murmured in his sleep. When the fever rose, he was plagued with nightmares, often too brief for Tithen to enter the other realm and lead him to peace. Tithen sighed. She did not know how long he could last like this. She did not know how long she could last.

ovovovovovovo

_Aragorn was cold, he shivered, and he knew he had a fever. He was sick. In the distance, far off, he could hear a woman whispering, singing gently to him, bathing his face in cool water, wrapping him in blankets. It was dark. Something was crushing him. He hurt. Why did he hurt so much? Who was the woman? The voice… the voice was so calming, so familiar…_

ovovovovovovo

Tithen frowned again as Aragorn whimpered in his sleep. She shuddered to think of how much he must be suffering to let a sign of pain escape him, even in sleep. His fever had risen, and she feared that if he awoke, he would be delirious.

Suddenly, Aragorn cried out. Tithen rewet the cloth and wiped it over his face, running her fingers through his hair with her other hand and murmuring softly to him in elvish, "Shh, it's alright. You're safe. Sleep, mellon nîn…"

ovovovovovovo

_"Mellon nîn?"_

_Aragorn looked up at Legolas as the elf gazed down on him with a smile and threw another blanket over him._

_"Legolas?" he asked, confused. The elven prince sat next to his friend and worked on fletching an arrow. _

_"Aye?" he responded._

_Aragorn blinked rapidly, and tried to sit up, but his arm and side felt burned, in sharp contrast to the bitter cold air. "What happened?"_

_"You rolled into the fire as you slept. The burns are not bad, but we should try to reach Rivendell soon, so Elrond can treat them," Legolas answered. "You have a very bad habit of finding trouble wherever you go, Estel. Someday, we must try to break you of it." Aragorn smiled and closed his eyes as the dream melted away._

_"Aragorn, waken penneth. Dawn is long over." Aragorn opened his eyes and sighed in relief as he saw the face of Elrond watching over him. _

_"Ada," he whispered, his throat dry and sore. "How did I get here?"_

_Elrond held a cup of water to Aragorn's lips and helped him to drink. "Legolas brought you. You had a high fever, and you were delirious. Rest now, ion-nîn. Sleep, and gain strength…"_

_Aragorn once again felt himself floating as the vision changed and he saw the face of Arwen, his beloved, shimmering into being before his eyes. _

_"Meleth," he murmured and reached out to touch a braid, to assure himself that she was there._

_"I am here, my love," she said with a smile. "Rest. Get well. Heal. Return to me."_

_All too soon, this dream also faded, and Aragorn was standing in a cold glade, snow lying in drifts up to his knees. What was he doing here?_

Before he could find an answer, they attacked. Orcs. They jumped on him and pounded him, slashed at him with their swords, bit him with their foul teeth. They held him down in the snow and brought a flaming log near his heart. He struggled and cried out.

ovovovovvovovo

Tithen placed her hand on Estel's shoulders and leaned on him with as much weight as she dared, trying to hold him down as he thrashed about, trapped in the throws of a nightmare.

"Estel! Awake! It's Tithen! No one is hurting you! It is but a dream! Wake! Estel!" she told him loudly, trying to curb the fear that rose in her heart. If he continued to thrash, he could tear the stitches in his side, begin to bleed, break the cracked ribs, pierce a lung…the list went on with all the horrible possible consequences if she did not get him to stop thrashing.

Why did he have to have a nightmare now? He had slept so peacefully for a time, Tithen had hoped that the worst was over, that his fever would soon break. Only when his fever broke, would she allow herself to sleep.

Tithen leaned on his right shoulder with all her weight and lay her right hand on his fevered brow, sending herself after his tormented spirit

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

_Suddenly her mind was assailed by unbearable pain and heat. She realized that the fever and the pain Estel was experiencing and the intensity of the nightmare were acting like a barrier, keeping her from reaching him, and helping him._

_She shut herself to the heat and pain and pressed onward, forcing herself through the wall of fire that separated her from Estel. The small part of herself that lingered in her body told her that the metaphysical pain and burning was hurting her physical body. She ignored it. Pain was something she was well acquainted with…it did not deter her. Estel needed her…just as…NO! NOT NOW!…_

_With a final effort, she burst through the fire and gasped, gathering her strength, fighting the pain. She saw Estel, troubled, fighting with something she could not see. She reached out to touch him, but he shrank back. She hovered a short distance away and slowly reached out to him again, calling his name and whispering words of comfort._

ovovovovovovovo

_As Aragorn struggled, the orcs faded, and his vision dimmed. Slowly, he calmed, realized they were gone. He heard a woman's voice calling him._

_"Estel, it's alright. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you here. You are safe, Estel," the voice whispered to him soothingly. Aragorn could see the hazy face of his mother appear in his dream, stroking his hair away from his face._

ovovovovovovovo

Tithen nearly collapse as she was pulled back to reality. Her body could no longer stand the pain and the sensation of burning, and had yanked her back. The pain lingered and she could feel that her strength had been sapped, but she was relieved to see a peaceful expression on Estel's face, and to see that he was still. She eased herself onto the edge of the bed and leaned on one arm as she gently ran her fingers through Estel's hair, damp with sweat.

"Naneth?" he whisper, his voice hoarse and his eyes just barely open, though not truly seeing. Tithen realized that he was dreaming of his mother, hallucinating that she was…

"Yes, Estel," she murmured, playing along. If the thought of his mother brought Estel peace, she would not disillusion him. He was fevered; the simple fact that he was no longer trapped in the nightmare was a relief. "I am here. Try to sleep. Nothing more can harm you here."

"So cold," he mumbled. "Hurts…chest…arm…fire…"

"Shh, shh," Tithen whispered. "I know. You have a fever. You are hurt. But you are safe now. Try to sleep. You will wake feeling better."

"Mmm," Aragorn sighed and settled back against the pillows. "Please, naneth…sing…"

"Yes, penneth," she murmured, continuing to stroke his hair as she racked her brains for a lullaby that his mother might sing to him…it would be an old one, one that all descendents of Numenor knew…that was it. Perfect.

"On the wings of the wind, o'er the dark rolling deep  
Belov'd Elbereth watches over thy sleep  
Blessed Elbereth watches over thee  
So list' to the wind blowing over the sea

Hear the wind blow  
Hear the wind blow  
Lean your head over  
Hear the wind blow

O Winds of the night may your fury be crossed  
May no one that's dear to our island be lost  
Blow the wind gently, calm be the foam  
Shine the light brightly to guide them back home…"

She sang the old song softly, running her fingertips through Aragorn's hair and smoothing away from his face until she was certain that he was asleep. She sat on the edge of the bed a few moments longer, simply gazing at him sleeping peacefully, wishing that she could meet his mother someday. She had raised an amazing man. Tithen had seen men older than he, more weathered and battle-scarred, suffer through lesser wounds and fevers with less dignity than he.

She rose and pulled back the edge of the curtain to gaze out into the night, hoping to see the comforting light of the stars. What she saw made her hurry to build up the fire and place more blankets on Aragorn.

Outside, snow was blowing drifts, the wind freezing everything that had not sought shelter. The trees were coated in ice, the ground covering in a thick blanket of tiny ice crystals. A blizzard had come to Tithen's valley.

TBC

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**A/N:** The song is an altered version of a lullaby called the Connemara Cradle Song. I don't own it, I don't know who does, but a friend of mine sent it to me, having read this story and realizing that it would work well, with a few changes. Thanks sis! 


	8. Fight Fire with Fire

**Fight Fire with Fire

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**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

**Medical Disclaimer:** no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

* * *

**QueenofFlarmphgal:** I wonder that too. Maybe he was dreaming about something that happened, or maybe it was a fever induced dream, or maybe Irmo was sending him comfort from worried family…Who knows, maybe we'll find out later! Enjoy the chapter! This one is not quite as Angsty, but I think you'll like it. More angst later, and more blizzard trouble!

**Bill the Pony2**: Here's the next chapter. Thank you for the compliment!

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**A/N**: Here's chapter 8 I'm sorry if the grammar or the wording is a little funny, but that is a side effect of writing when sick. If it seems to be completely off when my mind clears, I'll correct and repost. Enjoy! ( Achoo! Stupid Hippie Death Plague : ) Achoo!)

* * *

Tithen closed her tired eyes wearily and leaned back in the large, over-stuffed chair. She heaved a sigh of pure exhaustion and stress. The past five days had not been kind to her.

Five days ago, she had started out in the early morning to reach the village before nightfall. Less than halfway to her destination, she had rescued a man, Estel, half frozen in the bitter January weather and badly wounded. She had rode behind him for hours, finally bringing him to her home in the foothills of the mountains. That night, she had cleaned his wounds and put him in bed, before catching about two hours of sleep for herself.

That had been the last time she had slept. The next day, Estel had begun to cough, a deep, dry hacking cough that threatened to break his ribs and tear the stitches in his side. That night, the fever had risen.

For the next three days, Tithen had not slept, and barely eaten, so concerned was she with Estel's health. She had coaxed him to eat small amounts of a thin fruit mash, drink water, honeyed milk and herbal teas. She had tried to make him as comfortable as she could, giving him herbs to ease the pain and his cough, and to lower his fever.

It seemed hopeless. She had given him every herb she knew of to bring down the fever. She had kept the room warm, piled blankets on top of him to try and sweat the fever from him, but keeping a cool, wet cloth on his forehead to keep the fever from his brain. When his fever rose too high, she had removed all the blankets, draped him in towels and covered the towels in snow.

Tithen did not know whether she should curse the blizzard, or bless it. It had provided her with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of cold snow, but it had also blanketed the countryside with several feet of new snow, and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. That meant that she was snowed into her valley for the rest of the winter and that every time she went out to the barn to make sure that the animals had enough food and water she had to shovel a path for herself through it. She didn't dare just wade through—if she did, she would build up a layer of ice beneath the snow.

Tithen jerked her mind back to Estel. Her mind had been wandering more and more every time she sat down to rest. She had only allowed herself a few minutes doze here and there. She smiled as she thought back to that morning. Arod and Arthad must have realized that she was wearing herself thin, for when she had come in to fill their mangers, Arod had knocked her off her feet into a haystack with his nose. When she had tried to get up, Arthad had pushed her back down, and the two horses had stared at her, clearly saying, "You need rest! Stay down!"

Tithen sighed again and took a gulp of tea from a mug on the bedside table, making a face as she did. The tea was bitter, because she had brewed it far too long and because she had added painkilling herbs to the tealeaves, which did not improve the drink's flavor. She had lived on the bitter brew for the past three days, occasionally eating some dried fruit to sustain her, but she was not very hungry, and she only drank the tea because it kept her alert and gave her a medium to take the painkillers.

She winced as she slowly flexed her fingers. She had had to enter the spirit realm several times since Estel had dreamt he was being attacked, and each time she had had to fight the wall of pain and fire that kept her from Estel. Every time she had returned, she was more exhausted and her skin had the sensation of being horribly burned, though it _looked_ perfectly normal. The painkillers did very little to ease the pain of her unseen burns, but they did relieve her headache somewhat.

ovovovovovovovo

Aragorn hovered on the border between consciousness and unconsciousness. It was the only place that he could think clearly for a few moments. In waking, there was so much pain, and his fever clouded his thoughts. In sleep, there were nightmares from which he could not escape. And lying just beyond the nightmares was the darkness that called to him, whispering temptingly of rest, peace, a place of no pain, of seeing his father…but he would not go.

Aragorn's thoughts turned to Tithen. From what little he could remember since he was attacked, he knew that Tithen had not slept. His healer instinct worried about her. Every time that she had come into the spirit world to shake him from a dream and calm him, she seemed wearied and in pain. The soft light that radiated from her form had been growing dimmer each time he saw her.

Aragorn was torn from his thoughts as he teetered between consciousness and unconsciousness. He was somehow alerted to the fact that his fever had begun to rise again…

ovovovovovovovo

Tithen jumped out of her chair when she heard a soft groan escape from Estel's lips. She placed her hand on his forehead, not even noticing the pain lancing through her fingers. She was going to have to do it. She should have done it before…but no, she told herself, it was a one-chance thing, it had to wait until the _last possible moment_, or else, if it failed, she was left with no other options.

But now, there were no other options for her. If his fever rose again, she may not be able to bring it down in time, or even if it remained as high as it was for another day, there was an uncomfortably high chance that his body would not be able to handle the excessive heat any longer. If his fever was not lowered drastically, immediately, and kept low, there was a risk that it would damage his heart, his lungs, nearly everything, and she knew that that would be an untenable position for anyone, especially a ranger. She would hate it if it were she. She didn't want to have to tell Estel that his heart was permanently damaged, that he would never again be able to climb mountains, fight orcs, go out in blizzards…

No, that would not happen. She would do everything in her power to see him on his way, back north, or south, back to wherever it was that he called home. She would see him fit to travel even if that meant…

She crushed those thoughts as they came to her, and set about gathering things she might need. She dragged the chair closer to the bed, and set a bowl with cool water and damp cloths on the side table—she wasn't quite sure whether _Estel_ or _she_ would need them. If she failed, she would need them to cool his fevered body. If she succeeded, she would need them to ease the sensation of burning in her skin. She stoked the fire with enough logs to burn warmly for several hours—sometimes when she did this, she would not wake for a while.

Tithen sat on the edge of the chair, positioning herself so she could lay her hand across Estel's forehead and so that if she collapsed, she would fall into the chair, and not onto the injured man, or the floor.

She took a deep breath, and released it slowly, trying to calm her breathing, preparing herself for what she must do. She lay her right hand on his forehead, and her other hand on Aragorn's chest, right above his heart. It made things simpler, somehow.

_This time, she was prepared for the pain, but more than that, desperation drove her on. She would _not_ let him die. She couldn't. She had already-_

_STOP! She shouted at herself. Now was not the time for a guilt trip._

_She burst through the wall of fire and gazed around, looking for Estel. She spotted him near the barrier between this world, and the physical world. She drifted towards him, calling out his name softly. It was good that he was nearer consciousness than the last time she had done this, but she needed him to be firmly in this world, or otherwise, it might not work, and failure was not an option she wanted to contemplate._

_"Estel!" she called. He turned to look at her. As she neared him, he drifted towards her. _

_Aragorn was worried. Not for himself, but for Tithen. The aura of light around her was much dimmer than it had been. Aragorn was not sure what this meant, but he was certain that it could not be anything good._

_"Estel," Tithen said, grasping his arm and pulling his spirit closer to hers. The less distance it had to travel, the better. "Estel, your fever has gotten worse. I've done everything I can, but it remains too high. I have one more thing I can do, but if it does not work, there will be no more hope. The best I can promise you, if I don't do it or it fails, is that you may live, but be weakened. If it works, it will bring the fever down and it will help you heal much faster. Will you let me do it?"_

_Aragorn looked at her. "What is it?"_

_Tithen shook her head. "You don't have to worry. If it works, you will only feel stronger. If it does not, you will feel nothing, and what it is will not matter. Survive tonight, wake to me tomorrow, and tell me who I am, and I will tell you."_

_"You use that trick very well," Aragorn told her and nodded. What choice did he have anyway? "I agree. I will speak to you in the morning."_

_She smiled. "But not so easily, I should think. Come closer."_

_They drew nearer, floating but a short distance apart. Tithen closed her eyes and reached within herself, once again seeking her life force, that fire that burned deep within herself, keeping both her body and spirit alive, and together. She found it, and reached out to grasp the white-hot coals. Not only one this time, he needed more than simply the strength to stay alive_

Tithen bit her lip, and blood overflowed the trench, trickling down her face. The pain in her mind was terrible, and her hands twitched—they felt as though they were in the middle of a bonfire.

_Tithen grasped seven coals. That would be enough to give him not only the strength to live, but to heal, to fight the infection and repair the damage in his flesh. It was not until much later that she learned what would have happened had she sacrificed more for him._

_She drew them out of herself, trying to do it slowly, so as to shock neither her system nor his, but hampered by the fact that it burned, so she wanted to drop them. Finally, she was bridging the gap between them…_

Tithen's hand on Aragorn's chest began to glow, softly at first, and then with a brighter and fiercer intensity. The light seemed to flow into the prostrate man's body, for soon there was light radiating from within him…

_Tithen drew back. She had succeeded. The coals were within Estel; his life force had been strengthened. Already, she could see the fire behind her drop, no longer a wall of flame, but a flicker, like a row of candles._

_Aragorn gasped as the light in Tithen's hands entered into him, giving him strength. He could feel the fever begin to leave him. He looked up to thank her, for whatever it was she had given him, but was startled to see her dissipate, like a wisp of fog in a strong wind._

A cry ripped itself from Tithen as she jerked back into the chair as though she had been hit with an electric shock. She lay there, tense, panting, her heart beating much too fast, barely conscious. Black mist swam before her eyes.

As she became more aware of her surroundings, she sat up quickly and checked Aragorn's pulse, breathing and fever. The fever had broken, his pulse was stronger and regular, his breathing almost easy. It had worked!

A wave of pain crashed over her as she tried to brush some hair from Aragorn's face. Without realizing what she was doing, she tore from the room, out her front door, leaving it slightly ajar, and threw herself into a snowdrift.

There was agony as her sensitive skin felt the tiny, sharp ice crystals in the snow and her lungs protested against the sudden coldness of the air, and then relief, sweet, sweet relief as the cold numbed her, cooled her fiery skin, welcomed her, made her feel like a child.

She rolled onto her back, and, now completely numb, began to move her arms back and forth, leaving an imprint of the snow that looked like a lady of the court, with really big bell sleeves, had fallen into the snow with her arms above her head. She smiled as she remembered doing this with her, teaching her how to stand up without marring the imprint. But that was before…

"No!" she shouted into the night, scrambling up from where she had lain. All the frustration she felt with herself for not being able to control her thoughts, for have letting Estel's fever burn for so long, boiled to the top. She needed something to direct her anger at, her anger for everything. Orcs were what came to mind. _They_ had hurt Estel, _they_ had killed her brothers, _they_ had killed, no don't think of that…

"Filthy Orcs!" she shouted at the mountains, _her_ mountains. The mountains listened patiently to her venting her anger. They knew her well, knew what she had been through. They knew all that went on in the valley at their foothills, and they liked the girl. They were not fond of orcs either.

"How dare you, you scum, you scrapings from the dungeons of Angmar, you spawn of the pit!" she cursed the orcs in every tongue she knew, directing all her fury at them until she felt exhausted and realized that she was standing in the snow, in January, in a blizzard, in soaking clothes, after giving up part of her life force, and not sleeping for 5 days. She knew that her body had been weakened, and she was not helping herself.

She turned to go back into the house, and as she past over the threshold, she doubled over as a coughing fit seized her.

"Oh no," she gasped as the coughs subsided. "This is exactly what I _don't_ need."

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Having changed into dry clothes and taking a draught to suppress her cough and continue the work that the snow had started, Tithen reentered the healing room and sat in the chair next to Estel. He was sleeping peacefully, his breathing even and untroubled, his face no longer flushed with anything more than a fever of a degree or two, which was no problem. Tithen wanted to sleep. She was tired. Perhaps, she told herself, she could just close her eyes, catch a few minutes of sleep…

ovovovovovovovovo

Aragorn woke sometime later in the night, the sleeping and pain relieving herbs having worn off hours before. He lay there for sometime, simply enjoying the sensation of _not_ having a fever, of the lessened pain in his arm and side, the lack of crushing weight on his chest…

With a jolt, Aragorn wondered where Tithen was. She had always seemed to know when he was on the border of waking, and come to his side. He did not regret the fact that she was not there. He knew she must be exhausted, and he hated being fussed over. It simply worried him, remembering how she had seemed pained, and how she had been whisked away.

Aragorn opened his eyes and stared at the dark, carved wood beams, gathering his thoughts and senses. Slowly, he became aware of soft breathing on his left. Carefully, so as not to set off his headache, he turned his head on the pillow so that he could see Tithen.

He was not sure whether he should laugh, or be worried. Tithen had obviously fallen asleep in the chair, sitting as though she had fallen asleep on her feet and was fortunate enough to fall into the chair. Wisps of hair had fallen into her face and her head lolled to one side. He was worried by the dark circles that had formed under her eyes, and the grey tint of her skin that spoke of illness. She looked limp, like a rag doll that had fallen prey to an overenthusiastic puppy.

Aragorn wanted to get up and lay a blanket over her, and place a pillow behind her head, so it didn't hang at such an uncomfortable-looking angle. As he tried to shift, he was suddenly reminded of the severity of his wounds, and he longed for the herbs in his saddlebag that would have eased the pain somewhat.

But Aragorn was both too proud to ask for them, and too compassionate to wake Tithen. His healer instincts told him all was not well with her, that she needed to sleep more than he did, and probably eat.

His good intentions were betrayed by the lingering remnants of his cough, most of which Tithen's gift had defeated. As he shifted to find a more comfortable position, he began to cough. Not deeply as before, just slightly, as one getting over a chest cold does.

But Tithen heard it and leapt out of the chair as though shot from a bow and instantly brought him into a sitting position, to ease the cough.

"It's alright," he tried to gasp between coughs. "I'm fine, go back to sleep!"

The coughs abated and Tithen eased him back onto the pillows. "It worked!" she said jubilantly. Aragorn simply smiled at her.

"How do you feel?" she asked as she poured a glass of water for him and another for herself.

"How do you feel?" he countered, accepting her help as he sat up. She stuffed pillows behind his head. She steadied his hand as he grasped the glass and brought it to his lips. He hated being so weak that he could not do it on his own, but he knew that he needed her help.

Tithen gave him a withering look. "Who's the healer here? You or me?"

A mischievous smile played on Aragorn's lips. "Good question," he croaked, his throat still slightly raw. "Which one of us is the healer? You look like you could use the services of a healer."

"The healer is the one who can walk on their own."

"Do we want to see which one that is?"

Tithen shot him a mock serious look. "Let's not. I have already proved I could, so I am the healer. Therefore, I will ask the questions. Again, how do you feel?"

"Fine," Aragorn croaked, completely deadpan.

Tithen continued to stare at him.

"You know, that would sound a lot more convincing if you didn't sound like a lying sick _frog_ when you said it. If it weren't for the fact that you croaked when you said it, I would have only said you were a lying sick human."

Aragorn laughed in spite of the pain in his chest that it caused. "Alright, my question now. How do you feel?"

Tithen tried to brush her hair behind her ears and winced as she answered, "Fine" She yawned.

"You know," Aragorn mirrored her, "That would sound a lot more convincing if you weren't grimacing when you said and you didn't yawn so much."

Tithen laughed. "Very good, mellon nîn! I see this is going to be a very interesting winter."

Aragorn was not quite awake enough to question her last statement. He was stronger, but not yet whole. Tithen mixed painkilling herbs and slipped a sleeping herb into his water and helped him to drink it. Aragorn lay back on the pillows.

"I'll sleep if you lie down on that mattress," he told her, already feeling the effects of the sedative.

"Very well," she smiled. "Sleep well, my friend. Tomorrow dawns another day."

"Sleep well, Tithen," Aragorn replied, drifting off to a pleasant sleep. "Sleep, or when I get out of this bed tomorrow, I shall put herbs in _your _water!"


	9. Who's the Healer Here?

**Who's the Healer Here?

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**

**Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however.

**Medical Disclaimer**: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

* * *

Aragorn woke slowly, savoring the sensation of floating in between layers of feathers. Gradually, he became aware of the fact that his side was still painful, as was his left arm. But other than that and his slight headache, he felt good. Much better than he had felt in a long while. He was warm, clean, in a soft bed, and he didn't have to sleep with one eye open to danger. 

"Good morning," Aragorn heard Tithen's voice from the direction of the doorway. Had she even gone to bed? He opened his eyes and looked at her.

"Good morning," he responded. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Some," she replied abstractly sitting on the edge of the bed. Aragorn could tell that, despite her words, she had not slept. The circles under her eyes were darker, her skin a paler grey, her face drawn. Aragorn thought she looked like a reanimated corpse. It then that he noticed how her hands shook, how she seemed jittery, like someone in shock.

"Are you alright?" he asked, becoming even more concerned as she coughed a bit into her shoulder.

"Fine," she replied, reaching up to take out the hairpins that had held her braided hair in a bun for the past day or two. She couldn't quite remember which morning she had put it up, but it had been too long, as far as her scalp was concerned. "How do you feel this morning?"

"Fine," Aragorn replied, and watched in fascination and surprise as Tithen pulled the last pin from her hair and a long coil of braid unfurled. Since she was sitting on the bed, it fell almost to the floor.

Tithen sighed and rolled her eyes, looking at the ceiling, as though seeking some form of divine patience in dealing with the stubborn ranger. As she returned her gaze to his face, she realized that he was staring at her hair with a mix of laughter and shock in his eyes. She reached up to see if there was something in her hair, and realized that she hadn't brushed it in several days. She did not need a mirror to know that her hair would be frizzy and resembling a frayed rope.

She hopped off the bed and rummaged through a small pile of things that had collected near the head of her mattress over the past few days. She had meant to keep all her things upstairs in her room, but when Estel's fever had risen too high, she had settled in for the long haul.

She returned to her spot on the foot of the bed and began to unbraid her hair, her comb and brush resting in her lap.

"Let's make a deal, you and I," she said to Aragorn as she worked. "I'll be honest with you about how I feel if you are honest with me about how you feel. Neither of us can fool the other."

"So who's the healer here?" Aragorn asked smiling.

"Let's not go there. I just said I'd admit that I feel awful if you will," Tithen laid out her conditions for truce as she combed her hair, starting at the bottom and working her way up a few inches at a time.

"Agreed," Aragorn said, not fully intending to show his weakness. He watched her comb her hair for a moment and then asked, "Why comb it that way?"

"If you get the knots out of the end of the hair, you don't push all the knots to the bottom and end up with a tangle the size of your fist," she explained. "Haven't you ever seen hair this long?"

Aragorn shook his head slightly, and then stopped, because it felt like he was sending boulders rolling back and forth through his skull when he did. He tried to sit up. He was tired of lying on his back and looking up at his hostess. He wanted to see eye to eye with her, prove to her and himself that the weakness of the past few days was dissipating. He slid his right elbow back, intending to lever himself up, as he had done so many times in the past. He was no novice to sitting up with a wounded side and broken ribs.

Tithen saw what he was doing. She wanted to tell him to stay still, but knew that since he wouldn't be able to, trying wouldn't do any harm, and would drive home the fact the he was still weak and injured to the stubborn, proud ranger. She watched as he struggled for a moment and then collapsed back onto his pillows, wincing and breathing rapidly.

"Did I say you could sit up by yourself?" she asked as she got up, leaving brush and comb on the foot of the bed, and helped him into a sitting position. She grabbed pillows from the chair and filled in the space behind him. "There. Now you are sitting up. I know you are healer yourself. If it were I who was in this bed with a hole in my side, a broken arm, and only this morning woke up without a raging fever, would _you_ let me sit up on my own?"

"No," Aragorn admitted. "How did you know that I was a healer?"

Tithen took up where she left off combing her hair. She would have preferred to get them both fed before tending such a mundane act of personal upkeep, but she knew that it was commonplace enough to put the ranger at his ease. The last thing she need was to spook him.

"It's not that hard to tell. Even if I hadn't seen your healer supplies in your saddlebags. There are some herbs in there that only a healer would know about or dare to use,' she answered. "I can see it in you. Your hands are healer's hands, in your eyes, there is something that only a gifted healer has. Your spirit is that of a healer, and a warrior," she smiled. "One of your nightmares was that someone named 'Legolas' was in pain and you couldn't help him. Only a healer dreams that he is powerless to prevent suffering like that."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and nodded briefly before remembering that that was a bad idea. "Very astute."

"I don't suppose I could know who Legolas is? Or who Elladan, Elorhir, Elrond, Arwen, or about ten other people are?" Tithen asked jokingly as she rebraided her hair and watched Aragorn closely for signs of any lingering effects of fever.

Aragorn was shocked. Had he been delirious with fever long enough to dream about all of them and say their names out loud? He knew that he had mentioned his foster brothers, but had he really cried out for all of them? But how could she know their names otherwise? How could he tell her? There was so much at risk. But she was in Gondor, she probably never heard of Imladris, or Mirkwood, except as legend. She might not even believe elves existed, he thought, until he realized that she spoke fluent elvish.

"Elladan and Elrohir are my adoptive brothers," he said. There was no harm in telling her that. Most of the north knew that…it was his real name, his lineage that was the true danger. "Elrond is my foster father of sorts. My father died when I was very young, and he took my mother and me in," he laughed. "Legolas is a scoundrel who I consider a brother and get into a lot of trouble with." It was the truth, just not the entire truth.

"I see," she said quietly, as though she were trying to digest this new information, make it fit in with what she knew of him. "I am sorry about your father. I too lost my father, though not as a child."

"My sympathies," Aragorn said, and for a moment he though he could see something in her eyes, in the way she held herself, as though there were something else about the death of her father that troubled her, but that she would not reveal. It was like being allowed a glance at something on the other side of a closed door through the keyhole.

Tithen looked away, tracing her finger along a seam in the quilt that still lay on the bed. "It was long ago. Four years. I…" her voice trailed off, remembering. They had been so happy. It was supposed to be a celebration of sorts…gone wrong…the pain…the sorrow, like a dark ocean…not now. This is not the time, she reminded herself.

"Well," she said, rising and heading towards the door. "It's been almost a week since you've had a decent meal. I assume you are hungry?" She turned to look at Aragorn.

Aragorn was caught off guard by her question. He suddenly realized that he _was _hungry. The last time he could remember eating was the morning after she had brought him here, and that had not been a substantial meal. "Very." He said. His throat was still slightly raw and sore, no doubt from coughing so hard for, had she said almost a week!

Tithen laughed at the shock that registered suddenly on Aragorn's face as he realized he had been delirious and unconscious for nearly a week. "Do not worry, mellon nin," she said. "Elladan and Elrohir will never know."

Tithen returned shortly thereafter, carrying two bowls and mugs on a tray, which seemed to have legs. Aragorn was slightly disappointed to see that is was the familiar fruit mash again, but anything that was food was welcome.

She set the bed tray before Aragorn and sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that she could use the tray as well. She pushed Aragorn's food closer to him. Aragorn was glad to see that it was a slightly smaller portion than hers. He was hungry, but he knew that since he hadn't eaten much in the past few days his stomach wouldn't welcome as much food as he was used to.

Tithen nudged a spoon closer to him. "You may try to feed yourself. But," she cautioned, "If I see you struggling, I will not hesitate to help. Understand?"

Aragorn nodded, and lifted his right arm. It pulled painfully at his side, but the pain wasn't unbearable. He grasped the spoon shakily and took a bit of the food. He was surprised to taste, not apples, but pears, peaches and something else…

"It's almonds," Tithen said, and began eating, seeing that Aragorn could manage on his own for a while. "Even I was getting tired of that modified applesauce, so you must hate it by now." Aragorn smiled. The smile turned into a grin when he discovered that not only had the mash changed flavors, but it had become stew and dumplings. It reminded him of the desert that his mother made when he was young. Desert for breakfast! he thought with a chuckle.

"Be careful eating," she warned, "I put some almond slivers in the dumplings. I thought you might like something not, um, _mushy_ in your breakfast."

"How did you know?" Aragorn asked between mouthfuls of the sweet stew. He was feeling much better, but long sentences were still painful.

"Know what? Oh, about your brothers teasing you mercilessly for sleeping for a week?" she swallowed and took a sip of the tea she had poured for herself. Aragorn wondered why she would drink tea that was so dark and clearly overbrewed.

"You probably don't remember me telling you, but I had two older brothers myself," she answered. "They teased me about _everything_. I once fell asleep helping out in the fields during lambing season, snuggled with some lambs and their mothers, and they tormented me until summer harvest about it."

"Lambing season?" Aragorn tried to keep the conversation on a harmless and impersonal track.

"Mm-hm," she replied with the nonverbal affirmative. "Around March, usually right around the time of the last few snow storms, all the lambs are born. We had, I have, a fairly large flock, so it's not just a week, it's a _season_. Lambing season ends, a few weeks of rest, then comes harvesting the rocks, repairing the walls, tilling, planting—Sorry, I didn't mean to give you a list of all I do in a year."

Aragorn shook his head and chuckled, ignoring the pain. "Do not apologize. For a moment, you reminded me of some small people I know of in the west of Middle Earth. They are always shocked when they learn I do not know about some aspect of farm life and they instantly try to educate me!"

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

It was later in the afternoon. Tithen had left Aragorn sitting up, at his request, and given him books to read, which he propped up on the bed tray with pillows. He had alternately read and dozed for most of the day, stopping only to eat a light lunch of chicken soup or watch Tithen mutter about men who wear out their cloths and never think to repair them as she sat cross-legged on her mattress, knitting him new socks. She had declared every single sock he had in his saddlebags to be "dead", as well as the ones he had been wearing when she had found him. Her indignation made him laugh, as did the spectacle of her looking for the correct size needles, sending balls of yarn bouncing across the room and the wrong size needles clattering to the floor.

He looked up from the book he was reading as he heard her sigh. Tithen stretched and rose, brushing invisible dust from her skirt.

"Well, since it doesn't appear that you are going to be a good patient and go to sleep, and it's too early for me to make dinner, it seems to be as good a time as any to change the bedding," she looked him in the eye, her hands resting on her hips. "I think it's safe to say neither of us objects to clean sheets?"

It was more of a statement than a question and Aragorn knew it. He closed his book and began to shove off the blankets to get out of bed.

"Who said that you could get out of bed by yourself?"

Aragorn gestured towards the chair with his good arm. "It's two feet away! I can get from here to there. I'm not a child!"

Tithen shook her head. "You may not be a child, but you are acting like one. Specifically, like a toddler that tries to climb out of his crib, even though he can't walk! You already tried to sit up on your own this morning. If I recall, it was not a successful maneuver," she came over and picked him up, despite his adamant protests, and placed him the chair. "If you cannot sit up, how do you expect to walk? Hmm?"

Aragorn glared at her. He knew what she said to be true, but he didn't have to like it, or take it lying down. "Was that really necessary?" he asked indignantly as she tucked blankets around him and began to strip the bed.

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly. "If you act like a child, I shall treat you like a child. And," she threw the sheets past him and threw the open door, "I would ask you to think of what you would do if the positions were reversed."

"Pick you up like an infant and imprison you in this chair with blankets," Aragorn replied. He was impressed with Tithen's candor, but he wondered if her emotionlessness was a mask for something. She reminded him distantly of someone else he had met, somewhere, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Tithen quickly stripped the bed and remade it, tucking the sheets and blankets firmly under the mattress. As she finished making healer's corners, she cocked her head at Aragorn, who was gazing dreamily into the fire.

"I feel like something warm to drink. How about you?" she asked. Aragorn nodded—something warm on his raw throat would feel good.

"I'll be right back," she said, and returned several minutes later bearing two mugs of steaming drink. She set them both down on the table between the bed and the chair, carefully placing one nearer to Aragorn than the other. She cast a glance over the bed. "Drat, I forgot the pillowcases. I'll go get some from upstairs." Tithen left to fetch clean pillowcases form the upstairs linen closet, leaving Aragorn alone with the drinks. He glanced at the drink nearest him. He couldn't identify the smell. It was rich, and the drink was a creamy brown.

Aragorn cast a glance towards the door to see that Tithen was coming back and then picked up one of the herbs he had identified on the table while she had been making the bed. He quickly crushed the brittle leaves between his fingers and dropped the powered herb into the drink further from him, obviously Tithen's. There was already a fine dark power floating to the top, so the herb did not stand out.

Tithen returned and suspected nothing, slipping the pillows into their cases. She picked up Aragorn's mug, holding it out to him until she was sure that he had a firm grip on it. Aragorn had slid his fingers in the hole created by the handle, so even if his grip weakened, he wouldn't drop the mug. He took a sip. The drink was delicious, but strange. He had never tasted anything like it.

"What is it?" he asked Tithen, who had sat on the edge of her own bed, legs tucked underneath her and her skirt spread out. She smiled secretively.

"One of the best kept secrets of the south, my friend," she said. "Chocolate. Or, rather, hot cocoa, since chocolate is the solid candy, and this is a drink. I don't buy a lot from the merchants, but for this," she raised her mug, "I make an exception. Cheers!" She drank deeply from her mug and licked her lips, obviously enjoying it. Aragorn took another sip and watched her from over the rim.

Tithen began to blink sleepily after she had drunk about half of her hot cocoa, and was swaying slightly by the time she had finished it. She put the mug down on the floor, and suddenly gave Aragorn a look that shot daggers.

"You!" she cried. "What did you do that for?" She looked furious, until she went limp and fell back on her mattress. She curled up on her side, facing the fire.

Aragorn grinned at her sleeping form. She had needed to sleep, and he didn't mind napping in the chair. He had done it before, and it was a change from the bed. He finished his drink, knowing that she had slipped sleeping herbs into his, and leaned back comfortably in the overstuffed chair.

"Now, who's the healer here?" he asked no one in particular as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, enjoying his victory.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Not so much angst, a little breather, for us and poor Aragorn! Don't worry though, lots more angst on the way, after a little more recovery. 


	10. Peas, Carrots, and Pastries

**Peas, Carrots, and Pastries

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****Disclaimer**: I do not own the characters or places in this story that are the property of J. R. R. Tolkien. I just love them. I do own a few of the characters that appear in this story, however. 

**Medical Disclaimer**: no treatment or diagnosis is described within this text. All injuries, sicknesses and cures are the product of my imagination or what best fits the story.

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**QueenofFlarmphgal**: Aragorn awake, what a novel idea eh? He will be awake for most of the rest of the story. The tide is turning!

**Caracandal**: Thanks for your encouragement sis. Here's some more procrastination material for you. Good luck on the midterms. Of course you may peek at the next chapter, provided you beta! hugs

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**Glossary** Muinthel-sister; Ada-father

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"No! No, I won't go! She needs me! Ada, no! Please! Muinthel, don't leave us! I wont let you! No! No!"

Aragorn woke with a start, sending shooting pains through his side and arm. He blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to see who was crying. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light from the fire and the thin sunlight filtering through the curtains.

"Tithen!" he shouted as he realized that he couldn't get out of the chair to wake her. He was still weak from his wounds and Tithen had done a very efficient job imprisoning him in the chair by stuffing the blankets into the cushions. He watched helplessly as the young woman struggled with someone or something in her dream, trapped by the nightmare as he was by the blankets.

"Tithen! Wake up! You're dreaming! Wake up! Tithen!" he shouted at her as she continued to cry out and sob, "No, no! Muinthel! No!"

"Tithen!" he shouted as loudly as he could, his chest wound protesting as he filled his lungs with air, pulling at the stitches. Suddenly, Tithen sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead, at nothing. Tears streamed down her face and her shoulders shook with silent sobs. She remained there for a moment, eyes wide with fright at something only she could see. Then the tension left her body as abruptly as it had come, and she slumped forward, pulling her knees towards her chest and resting her arms on them, letting her head hang down wearily.

Aragorn leaned forward slightly and began to work the blankets free. "Tithen?" he asked softly. She didn't move. "Tithen, what's the matter? What happened?"

Tithen snapped her head up, seeing him for the first time. She quickly started to wipe away her tears with the heel of her hand.

"Nothing, nothing's wrong, it was just a nightmare," she said, too rapidly for Aragorn to believe her. They both sat there for a moment, Tithen trying to eradicate any lingering signs of her distress and Aragorn trying to discern what it was that had caused the cold, stoic girl to break down her mask so completely.

"You know I'm going to get you for that," Tithen stated bluntly. Aragorn feigned innocence.

"What did _I_ do?"

Tithen glared at him and stood, hands on hips. "You know what you did. You drugged my cocoa!"

"You were so tired, I wouldn't have needed to," Aragorn replied, trying to conceal the grin that threatened to break forth. "Besides, it was _you_ who drugged _mine_."

"You needed to sleep, you stubborn ranger!"

"I'd been asleep for six days!"

"You mean delirious with fever!"

"That fact that I had a fever had nothing to do with it. _You_ have a cough, and you haven't slept for six days."

"Not true," she said, turning her back on him to stoke the fire. "I hadn't slept in five days," she muttered quietly.

"One day does not make that much of a difference," countered Aragorn.

"So one more day without sleep wouldn't have done me any harm," Tithen replied coolly. "And, as punishment, you will have to eat the fruit stew for breakfast again. I was going to make a bread pudding last night, but since _someone_ drugged me to sleep before dinner, I never got a chance to."

Aragorn broke into a grin. "Eating fruit and dumplings two days in a row is a small price to pay for seeing your face when you realized what I had done."

"Laugh while you can, ranger," Tithen warned ominously. "Just remember, _I'm_ the one with access to _all_ the herbs, and turn about is fair play."

Tithen stalked off to the kitchen, trying to ignore Aragorn's laughter, which floated after her. Just you wait, cheeky ranger, she thought.

Aragorn chuckled for a few moments after Tithen left, and let them die slowly, content with the pain it caused. He had so few chances to laugh, at anything, that it was worth a little agony to feel mirth bubble up and overflow, even at something as insignificant as her indignation at being caught asleep.

Or was it really a mask to cover something else? Aragorn turned this new possibility over in his mind. She was concealing something, like he would an injury. She had built a wall around herself, and every now and then, he would see a glimpse of what was inside through a small crack, quickly patched. He had seen something in her eyes, when she had mentioned the death of her father. Her nightmare was of something real, of that he was sure.

He was startled out of his speculations by a furry, warm body suddenly appearing in his lap and rubbing itself against his hands, accidentally sending red-hot pokers through his broken arm. He looked down, startled, at a ginger tabby cat, who returned his gaze with her large golden eyes. She tilted her head to one side, as though trying to decide whether or not she liked him.

"Hello puss," Aragorn murmured and stroked her silky ears with his good hand. The cat rubbed herself luxuriously against him, purring deeply. As abruptly as she had come, she leapt off his lap and streaked out of the room. Aragorn laughed. He should have known. Even if this hadn't been a farm, and all farms have cats, Tithen was the kind of person who enjoyed the company of cats.

Apparently, she enjoyed the company of multiple cats, he thought to himself as the tabby returned, bearing a small, tortoiseshell kitten in her mouth, which she gentle deposited in Aragorn's lap, and left again, only to return with another kitten, this one mottled black and white. The mother then leapt up onto the bed and curled up, watching how the man treated her children.

"Well well well, if she has taken a like to you, I shan't be able to seek my revenge just yet," Tithen commented coolly as she returned, bearing a loaded tray of covered dishes. "And, my friend, you got lucky. I had forgotten that I have a very full henhouse, and that hens lay eggs on a daily basis. Therefore, we are having scrambled eggs today, and not stew." Tithen sat on the bed and pulled the covers off the tray. "Do you think you can hold a plate on your lap?"

"I think I could, but…" Aragorn trailed off, motioning to the two kittens, which had curled themselves up contentedly in his lap. Tithen smiled and gently moved them to the side of the chair.

"There. Now," she said as she placed a dish of eggs on Aragorn's lap, a fork in his hand and began to eat her own breakfast, "I had intended to make split pea soup for lunch today, but I'm afraid that, for lunch at least, we're going to have to have chicken soup again. Sorry Estel," she said apologetically. "I'll make pea soup, just as soon as I remember, or find, which pantry I put all the dried peas in." She attacked an uncooperative piece of egg violently. "Stupid dried beans."

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn was back in bed, since Tithen had insisted, but this time, he had insisted he get there under his own power. He had almost made it. His strength gave out one step from the bed, and had Tithen not been watching him like a hawk, he would have fallen into the bed on his face, and his broken arm.

He was reading a book of lays. He had skimmed through some, which he knew nearly by heart, but was reading with interest one which he had not heard before. It told the tale of a man and his wife who came to Middle Earth with Elendil, escaping the fall of Numenor. He coughed, the lasting effects of the infection, and the book closed. He mumbled curses at the stiff leather binding softly, so as to not disturb the several cats and kittens that were taking their after lunch naps on his bed. He opened the front cover, and noticed for the first time that someone had written something on the first page. In a spidery hand, it read

For you, my love, my Luthien,

This book of lays, for my Tithen.

May one day our love be told

On pages yellowed, cracked and old.

On this day, when our love is sealed

This book I give, of loves revealed.

Be happy my love, until again you I see

And forever more, with you I'll be.

Caevudor

Aragorn stared at the attempt at poetry, and pondered this new information. This added another piece to the puzzle that was Tithen, but it also deepened the mystery. She had been in love, and she had been betrothed, to someone named Caevudor. From the date above the poem, he had given her this book four years prior. Four year engagements weren't unknown (as Aragorn knew full well), but they were a rarity among humans, and especially odd when the woman had no living family. They had not been married, and then she widowed, for she wore no wedding ring. Nor, did he think, they fall out of love, for then Tithen would have undoubtedly blotted out the love poem.

What had happened?

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

It was the next day, after lunch. Aragorn was resting in bed, very bored. He loved to read, but it was getting very dull, just lying in bed, using only one arm, and avoiding hitting his very sore chest and broken arm. He wanted to get up and walk around, but knew that it was foolish to do so alone, considering his previous attempt.

He closed the book he was reading and carefully reached for his saddlebag, which Tithen had placed over his headboard. He pulled it into his lap and started to rummage through it for his pipe and tobacco. It possibly wasn't the smartest idea to smoke, considering the lingering cough, but it was something to do. He heard Tithen coming down the hall and quickly stuffed pipe and pouch into his pocket. Most Southerners found the practice of smoking strange, to say the least.

Tithen walked into the room, munching on a raw carrot. Aragorn burst out laughing; the sight seemed rather absurd, for some reason.

"What?" Tithen asked, wondering why the man had abruptly burst into laughter when she had entered the room. She glanced at the bright orange root in her hand and realization dawned. She laughed and quickly ate the rest, so that her cheeks bulged like a chipmunks, which made Aragorn laugh even more. Tithen covered her face with her hand until her mouth was empty.

"I like eating raw carrots," she stated. "Besides, they're good for your eyes."

She came over and stood next to the bed, arms crossed, waiting for Aragorn to stop chuckling.

"Are we done laughing now?" she asked. Aragorn nodded, holding his side, which was not laughing. "Good. Now, I imagine that you are terribly sick of staying in this bloody (bloody being an expletive and not an adjective) bed, and that if I don't help you to get up and walk around soon, you will try it on your own. Am I right?"

"Perfectly," Aragorn replied, immediately shoving back the blankets, and carefully swinging his legs over the side.

"Whoa, slow down," Tithen cautioned, sitting next to him on the bed. "First things first. First, I am going to support you. Need I remind you what happened last time you tried this? Second, We're just going to walk to the door, and if, IF you are comfortable with it, down the hallway. There is a sitting room of sorts a few doors down. Thirdly," Tithen produced a small pillow from behind her back and tied it around her left side. "I'll put this on, so if I bump you, it will be a pillow, and not my bony ribs. Now, carefully, slide your arm over my shoulder, don't jerk the stitches." Tithen made sure that Aragorn had his arm firmly around her shoulders and then she wrapped her arm around his back and waist to support him. "Now, on the count of three, stand, SLOWLY! One, two, three!"

Gently, they rose in unison, and stood there for a moment. Aragorn closed his eyes and waited for the waves of pain and dizziness to fade. The dizziness abated, but did not disappear; the pain faded, but stilled let him know it was there. His legs felt weak and wobbly (he hated that word, but it was the only one that fit).

"Ready?" Tithen asked quietly, not wanting to rush Aragorn before he was steady and sure of himself. After a moment, he opened his eyes and nodded his head. "Alright then. One step at a time."

Step after shuffling, painful step, they made their way across the room towards the doorway. Tithen kept a firm grip around Aragorn's waist and laid her hand in support over his resting on her shoulder. Every now and then, he would gasp as the movement sent pain shooting through his wounds.

They came to the door way and the rested, Aragorn leaning heavily on Tithen. Tithen looked up at him, trying to judge whether he was fit to continue.

"You said the room was just down the hall?" Aragorn asked, panting slightly.

"Aye, about twenty feet to the right," Tithen answered. "Shall we?"

"Aye," Aragorn said determinedly, and they started off down the hall. After what seemed to be an eternity, and past several doors, Tithen guided him through an open door on the left and over to a large, comfortable looking couch by the fireplace. She eased him down and settled him back into the corner, lifting his legs up and covering him with a quilt. The quilt, Aragorn noted. The quilt her grandmother had made.

"Congratulations," Tithen said smiling. "You can walk. Would you like to stay here for a while?"

"Aye, I'd like that, a chance to stare at a different four walls for a change. Hey," he said as the ginger tabby jumped up next to him and promptly deposited one of her kittens in his lap. "Do you have them trained to sit on me? I don't mind, it's just…"

"Strange?" Tithen laughed as she stoked the fire. "I know. No, I don't train them. She just does that, though only with people she likes. She's a very good judge of character. She does strange things like that. Do you know what her name is?"

"No, I don't think you ever told me."

"Apricot."

"Apricot?" Aragorn repeated incredulously.

"Yep. The first thing she did after I found her was steal and eat an apricot turnover."

"You're joking."

"Nope," Tithen replied, rising and heading towards the door. "I'm going out to the kitchen for a moment. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you," Aragorn said, settling back against the cushions and petting the tiny kitten. "I'm fine. Oh, wait…" he said, drawing forth his pipe and tobacco. "Could I have a lit taper?"

"What for?" Tithen asked, confused. She had never seen anyone but Mithrandir smoke, and he never needed a taper to light his pipe.

"To light my pipe," Aragorn explained, hoping that she would not think him insane. Tithen shrugged.

"I suppose," she lit a taper from the fire and held it out to Aragorn, who lit his pipe and began to puff smoke from the end. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why smoke?"

Aragorn shrugged. "I don't really know. Gandalf introduced me to it. It gives one something to do in the wild-"

"It smells good."

"Hmm?"

Tithen threw another log onto the fire. "It smells good. Homey. Comforting, like, sitting around the hearth with family in the winter."

Aragorn laughed. "I suppose it does."

Tithen left to attend to things in the kitchen. She was terribly thankful that she had many dishes, but they had created quite a pile near the sink, and it was time to wash them. She liked to have things in order, and stacks of dirty dishes were not included in that order.

She set herself to washing the dishes, her hands growing red and sore as they alternated between the scalding hot water in the basin and the cold running water.

She had saved Estel. She had stopped the cough, kept him away from the darkness. She had not failed. Like she had twenty years ago. She had let her die. She had not saved her. She had failed. She could save a stranger, but she couldn't-

"Stop!" she screamed and slammed her fists into the dishpan, shattering a plate. "Not now! I have to concentrate. No one can know." She berated the small, nagging voice in the back of her mind, and thanked the Valar that Aragorn was half way across the house and incapable of coming to look for her. She would pay for her failure, but not now. After he had gone, when no one would stop her.

She quickly dried her hands and pasted a smile on her face. She couldn't let him know. He had already begun to suspect, and she couldn't let him see any more. She picked up a plate of pastries and headed back to the sitting room.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn had heard the shout, but he was powerless to find out what had caused it. He sat on the sofa, blowing smoke rings and stroking the silky fur ball on his lap, listening to the contented purring.

Tithen entered and handed him a pastry.

"Here," she said, sitting in a rocking chair and taking one for herself. "Eat. You must be hungry." Aragorn bit into the pastry. It was filled with fruit. He cast her a questioning glance. "In answer to your look, yes, it is the fruit stew. I cooked it down and made it into a pastry filling. I had to do _something_ with it."

"If you're giving me a pastry now, does that mean that you will make scones soon and I'll learn about your strange name?" Aragorn asked, glancing over at her to see how she reacted. He had a feeling that there was something to the story of her name that troubled her. Tithen looked at her hands and a sad, troubled look came over her face.

"Soon," she said. "Soon. All will be made clear. All scores will be settled." The way she said it made Aragorn think that there was an underlying meaning, something ominous.

"Soon," she said.

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**A/N**: Just thought I should let you know, there is NO CHILD ABUSE IN THIS STORY. What was she begging her father to stop? Well, you'll just have to wait and see. But there is no child abuse here. Also, for those of you who are snickering at the unlikely cat story, stop laughing. That tale is based on my own experience. The day we brought home our current cats, we left them alone in the kitchen with a steak and a bag of blueberry muffins while we went to do something. When we came back, they had torn open the bag and were eating the muffins. Go figure. Hope you enjoyed this chapter! 


	11. The Calm Before the Storm

**The Calm Before the Storm

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** A/N**: Hi! Well, here's the update/revised chapter. Okay, I know you all are waiting to find out what happened to Tithen, but you're going to have to wait about two-three more chapters. Things start to pick up again next chapter. This and the last couple were a breather, and interlude of sorts, between Aragorn angst and Tithen angst, besides being the time period in which I could get Aragorn back on his feet.

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**Public Service Annoucement-** Have discussed it with various people, I have changed the time table. NOTE: Tithen's parents died and Caevudor disappeared FOUR years ago, NOT TEN. This is significant later. Thank you.

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**QueenofFlarmphgal**- I'm glad you liked my cats. While I was writing the last chapter, I was unsure where she would allow smoking, but since she has seen Gandalf do it (how he comes into it will be explained later) and, like me, and anti-smoker to the end, she likes the smell of pipe tobacco, which smells nothing like cigarette or cigar smoke.

**lindahoyland**- Cats will break every norm and general rule of thumb, won't they? I think they will turn out to be good for both Aragorn and Tithen. Thanks for your advice. I tried to make the dialogue less "modern", but I have to make them sound human, too.

**To all my other reviewers**-Thanks for your encouragement!

**To all those people who have read this, enjoyed it and not reviewed**- Thank you for reading, now go review! PLEASE! It makes my day. I love anonymous and signed reviews equally!

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"Easy now, don't rush. Wait, hold on a-" Tithen switched from Aragorn's right to his left side, so he could lean against the wall and sat down on the stairs, coughing. When she didn't stop after a minute and the coughs continued to get deeper, Aragorn carefully turned around and sat on the stair next to her, rubbing her back in soothing circles.

"Tithen?" he asked tentatively as the spasms slowed, and then ceased. None to soon, Aragorn thought. She had begun to look as though she were going to pass out from lack of air. She remained hunched over, hugging herself as though by holding herself together she could stop the coughs from ripping her apart. She nodded slightly.

"Mmm?" was all the response she could give for the moment. Her chest was on fire, and it felt as though she were wearing one of those ridiculous corsets her mother had shown her once.

"Are you alright?" Aragorn already knew the answer; of course she was not all right. It was common courtesy to ask.

"Yeah, fine," she lied, still gasping slightly, trying to regain her breath and ward off the waves of dizziness that accompanied the lack of air.

Aragorn sighed. Why was it that all descendants of Westernesse seemed compelled to lie about being sick or injured?

"What was it that you said to me the morning I woke up? 'Neither of us can fool the other'? You can't fool me, Tithen. You're not fine."

"Yes, I am," she insisted, still panting slightly. "It must have just been a piece of dust. I haven't cleaned in a while."

Aragorn gave her a skeptical look. That was the most blatant lie she had told yet. She had been running around like a mad woman for the past two days, broom, mop, bucket and dusting cloth in hand, cleaning. She had told him that she liked to keep her house neat and tidy, because that was the _only_ thing she could keep neat.

"You are _not_ fine," Aragorn told her. "You're sick. You caught my chest cold," realization struck. "You've had it for more than a week. You've been suppressing it and running yourself ragged."

"I'm-"

"Don't lie," he warned seriously.

She sighed. "Fine. Yes, I caught the cough, yes I have been suppressing it, but I have not-" she stopped short, seeing the look Aragorn gave her. "I had to."

Aragorn sighed. "You did not have to. You could have taken care of yourself."

"Not while taking care of you."

"You're not taking care of me now," Aragorn pointed out.

"Oh no?" Tithen smiled. "And tell me, how were you planning to get up these stairs without me?"

Aragorn grinned mischievously. "Let me show you." He started to push himself up but Tithen pushed down on his shoulder and stood up herself, smiling broadly.

"Oh no you don't!" she cried laughing. "Let's _not_ have any pride-induced concussions today please!"

She helped Aragorn to his feet and switched sides, so they were once again facing up the stairs and she was on his right. They began their slow ascent once more. At the landing, they turned to the right and started down a corridor. A few doors down from the stairs, Tithen pointed out a room on their left, the only door that stood slightly ajar.

"That's my room," she said, stopping for a moment to allow Aragorn a chance to memorize the location. "If you need me at anytime during the night, I'll be here," she grinned. "I'll hear you even if you can only manage to whisper, because…" She walked three steps forward and pointed to the first door on the left of an adjacent hallway, "This is your room, so long as you prefer it to the healing room."

She led him into the room. It was a fairly large bedroom (for a human house, that is; elves, of course, boast of the largest bedrooms. A small bedroom for an elf would comfortably house two to four humans.) Its walls were whitewashed, though the woodwork and ceiling beams were dark with age. There were two large, leaded glass windows, one of which was set into an alcove between the fireplace and closet. The floor was dark, wide peg-and-board, and strewn with braided rugs, the sort made from colorful bits of rag. There was a large, soft-looking bed, covered in quilts, afghans and pillows. There was a rocking chair in one corner and a large, leather-upholstered chair in front of the fire. The room smelled mildly of cedar wood and lavender.

Aragorn stood blinking in mild shock for a moment. The room seemed homey, welcoming, as though it had waited for him. It was like his room in Rivendell and his favorite inn rooms combined.

"I hope you'll be comfortable," Tithen said, unsure whether his stunned reaction was a good thing or not.

Aragorn shook himself free. "Yes, I'll be fine."

"Good," Tithen left him and opened the closet, which contained a built-in dresser. "I mended your clothes, or, at least, I mended and washed those that were mendable. There are some new socks in the top drawer. I'm working on some more, and some new clothes. The ones you came here in did not survive the orcs."

"Thank you, for the socks…and everything else." He looked around the room, out of habit, but something caught his eye. On the wall over the bed, there were two pictures. One was a charcoal sketch of what Aragorn could only assume to be Tithen's house. It showed a large, rambling stone building, looking like it had been built and expanded over many centuries. The other was a watercolor of a lake, surrounded by fields; mountains rose in the distance, a backdrop of timeless sentinels, protecting her paradise.

Tithen noticed him starring at the pictures. She came and stood beside him.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" She pointed to the picture of the house. "My mother did this one. She took up sketching after…after I was no longer a child. The other one was done by an itinerant artist who came to me one spring. His horse had thrown him and he had broken his wrist. The village healer sent him to me, because she is not gifted in healing wounds and breaks, though she is gifted in other ways. I set it for him, and as payment for my services and thanks that he could still practice his art, he painted my lake."

"They are magnificent," Aragorn agreed. He wondered what had happened to make Tithen's mother take up sketching. She had started to say, but then stopped and changed it.

"Well," Tithen said, turning away from the painting to look at him. "Is it too bold to presume that at this moment your heart's desire is a long, hot bath?"

Aragorn laughed. "It is rather bold. But you presume correctly."

"Who could deny a heart's desire?" Tithen grinned as she pulled fresh clothes for him from the closet. "Follow me. Do you need help?"

"No, I'm fine walking," he replied. It wasn't a lie. He was able to walk on his own, though he limped slightly to avoid pulling at his chest wound.

Tithen led the way down the hall to another bathroom. "Here you are. I'll leave you to it. Don't hesitate to call if you need me. Remember, I had two older brothers. Oh, wait a minute, take off your shirt, I want to check those stitches." With Tithen's help, Aragorn wriggled out of his shirt. Tithen cut through the bandages around his chest and scrutinized the wound.

"Yes, I think the stitches can come out now," she declared. "I'll take them out after you've had your bath, it's easier when they aren't stiff. I'll take the ones out of your arm as well."

Aragorn nodded. The stitches had started to itch infernally; he would be glad top be rid of them.

Tithen laid out new clothes and a pile of towels on a bench and showed him how to work the taps, before bidding him have a good bath, and left.

Aragorn turned on the taps and slowly undressed, being careful not to jostle his arm. He eased himself into the hot, steaming water and sighed, letting the heat relax his sore, stiff muscles and the fragrant scent of lavender soap carry him leagues away…

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Tithen stood outside the bathroom for a moment, listening until she heard a satisfied sigh and the sloshing of water. She turned and wandered aimlessly down corridors, lost in her thoughts until she found that her feet had carried her to somewhere and now she had stopped.

She had not come here in several moons. The room was small, its walls still showed their foundational stone and beams, unpainted. There was no fireplace, and no furnishings. There was a large bay window looking west towards the mountains, and a stone window seat with sparse cushions. The leaded windowpanes were frosted, and the lower ones obscured by the snow. The room was bathed in pale, watery sunlight; there were no candles in the sconces on the wall.

Tithen slowly, tentatively walked over to the window seat and sat down as though expecting it to be booby-trapped. Cautiously, seemingly still unsure of the safety of the seat, she relaxed; she leaned back against the bay window wall and drew her knees up to her chest. Hugging them to herself, she rested her chin on her knees, and softly began to chant old elvish prayers. Tears silently trickled down her cheeks, drops of sorrow stealing from her eyes as she sang prayers for the living and the lost, the wanderer and the one at rest, prayers for healing and for comfort.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn carefully levered himself out of the tub, aware that his balance and equilibrium were still recuperating. He toweled himself off, regretting (almost) that he had followed Tithen's advice and got his splinted arm wet, which meant that she would have to rebandage it, and that he couldn't put on a shirt until she did. He noticed, as he got dressed, that she had foreseen this eventuality, and had laid out a dressing gown, with a note pinned to it.

_Wear this until I rebandage your arm—that way you won't catch pneumonia. I'd rather avoid a repeat of the first week._

Aragorn slid into the robe, tied the belt one handed, and rested his arm in its sling. He shook his head vigorously to shake off as much water as possible.

He stood in the doorway, listening to the sound of distant chanting, trying to discern from whence in the maze of corridors and rooms it came.

Aragorn drifted through the halls, tracking down the source of the sound. At the end of one corridor, a door stood open, a pool of sunlight flooding into the hall. Aragorn walked slowly towards it, not wanting to startle Tithen, who he could hear chanting inside.

He leaned against the doorpost, and looked with pity and bewilderment at the sight that met him. Tithen, curled up on a window seat in a bay window, looking like a lost and frightened child. She chanted elven prayers in a faltering voice, as she stared out the translucently frosted window at the mountains, tears falling from her face. He wanted to comfort her, take her in his arms as he would a child, ask her why she cried, tell her it would all be alright.

But he could not do that. She was not a child, she was a woman. A proud, stubborn woman, who had spurned all his attempts at aide and comfort. She had demonstrated time and again that whatever it was in her past that troubled her, she did not want to reveal it, in any way.

"Tithen?" he asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

She looked up, slightly startled, and gave him a watery smile.

"Yes," she said, wiping her eyes with her cuff, "Just thinking, about my parents, and…" her voice trailed off, and her eyes were drawn back to the window.

Aragorn came and sat on the window seat beside her. "Caevudor?"

She looked at him as though he had just told her that he had revealed her whereabouts to Morgoth. "Where did you learn his name?"

"In the book of lays you gave me to read," he told her, watching her face. "He wrote a love poem to you." He paused, watching as she turned again to stare towards the mountains. "What happened?"

Tithen gazed at him, unshed tears glistening in her eyes, but her voice was steady.

"I don't know," she gazed sorrowfully at the mountains. "He left…four years ago…just before my parents died…" she looked at Aragorn with fire smoldering in her eyes. "He left a note, saying that he wanted to find me a wedding ring worthy of my beauty." She scoffed. "He thought I was the most beautiful mortal woman in Arda. I am not that beautiful. My hair is neither dark not fair, my skin is roughened by years of honest toil. There are many woman that surpass me in beauty," she smiled, remembering her beloved. "But he saw me as none other. He called me his 'Luthien'." She paused. "Is that who Arwen is to you?"

Aragorn was taken aback. "What?"

"Is Arwen your beloved? You talked to her, about her in your delirium."

Aragorn smiled. "Yes, she is my beloved, and my betrothed."

"She is a lucky woman, as are you, I have no doubt," Tithen smiled. "I feel for her, waiting for her Estel to come home."

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

"There," Tithen said, as she gently tugged the last stitch from the Aragorn's arm. "The last stitch is gone. Now all we have to do is wait for the wounds to heal completely, and," she pointed to Aragorn's re-splinted arm, "Wait for the bones to knit together. And then you'll be good as new."

"Thanks," Aragorn said, raising his hand to scratch as the itchy scabs around where the stitches were. Tithen caught his hand and laid it in his lap before wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"No scratching. You'll make it start to bleed again, and it will heal more slowly," she said, tying off the ends. "Now, I have chores…"

"You have a bed to fall into," Aragorn told her.

"As I was saying, I have some chores to do, and _then_ I will go to bed, until I have to make supper, because _you_ are forbidden to go downstairs by yourself, understood?"

"Yes, mother," Aragorn teased.

Tithen smiled with mock severity. "Good. Now, sit here, smoke your pipe, read, go to sleep, just stay out of trouble!"

Aragorn laughed as Tithen left to do her chores. He lit his pipe and contemplated the afternoon's revelations. Tithen had been betrothed, but Caevudor had disappeared four years ago in search of a wedding ring. Tithen had lost not only her father and her beloved that year, but her mother as well. Which left the question of what had happened to her brothers.

And what was she still hiding?

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**A/N**: For all of you who read "balance and equilibrium" and wondered why I was repeating myself, I wasn't. They are two different things. You can be balanced, and not have equilibrium. How? The wonders of therapy, mellon nin. Anyway, that's why. And for some strange reason, I seemed to use a lot of alliteration today. Oh well. 


	12. Thunder in the Distance

**Thunder in the Distance

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**A/N:** I'm so sorry to get this out so late. I've been chasing life for a few weeks and finally caught it. As compensation, it's longer than the others. I hope you enjoy it.

**To All Reviews**- Thanks for the reviews. I have not given up on this story, it's just been hard to write lately. I hope the next update will be quicker though.

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Disclaimers- We all know by now, I don't own anything by Tithen and her family, and I am not a doctor, the medical stuff is by no means definitively accurate, or definitively inaccurate and reality is wrong. It's just my ideas and opinions.

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Days had passed, and had converted to weeks. Aragorn had continued to heal. His limp was no longer noticeable, his arm pained him considerably less, and was well on its way to being fully healed. He no longer wore a sling, and his arm was only lightly splinted to prevent him from using it too much. He had grown stronger, and was no longer suffering from the lingering effects of his cold.

Tithen, however, had not. She had refused to rest as much as she should, so her cough had gotten progressively worse. During the night, Aragorn could often hear her sobbing, or muttering. During the day, she seemed preoccupied, staring into the distance. When Aragorn asked what was wrong, she immediately became cheerful and bustled about. Had the phrase been familiar to Aragorn, he would have been thinking, "Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

For the third night in a row, Aragorn was startled out of his sleep by the sound of strangled screams and sobs. Tonight differed in that after the screams came the sound of breaking pottery.

Aragorn jumped out of bed and stumbled down the dark corridor, his mind still clouded with sleep. Tithen's door was outlined with a faint glow, probably from the fire in the hearth. Aragorn knocked softly on the door.

"Tithen?" he asked as he pushed the door open. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" she shouted. Aragorn entered and stood by the door, assessing the situation. Tithen was kneeling on the floor, halfway between her bed and the fireplace, her figure outlined by the firelight. She was dressed in her nightclothes; her hair was falling out of her braid. On the floor in front of her was a shattered mug and a pool of water slowly creeping outward. Aragorn came and knelt beside her. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized that blood was pooling in her left palm and dripping into the puddle on the floor.

"You're bleeding," he told her; she seemed not to have noticed her bleeding hand nor Aragorn beside her. "Let me see…"

"No!" she shrieked, jerking away. "No," she repeated more quietly, but angrily. "It's just a scratch. I'll be fine."

Aragorn reached out quickly and grabbed her wrist. She tried to twist away, but he was stronger than she.

He lifted a shard of pottery from her hand and dropped it on the floor. Drawing a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped away the blood with his left hand as he kept a firm grasp on her wrist with his right hand as she continued to struggle against him.

Aragorn tilted her hand towards the fire, so as to see it better. The gash was not terribly deep, but it should be stitched, he thought.

"You should let me stitch it for you," Aragorn said gently, but firmly. Tithen finally managed to wrest her hand from him.

"No!" she shouted, hugging her hand to her chest. "It's fine! I can take care of it myself!"

"Tithen-"

"NO! Get out!" she screamed at him, backing away.

"At least let me-" Aragorn began.

"No! Leave me be!" she shriek hysterically; she collapsed back against her bed, curling herself around her hand and sobbing.

Aragorn did not like it, but he left. He knew that forcing his help on her would be no help at all—she was too upset and irrational to reason with. When she was like this, Aragorn wasn't sure if she was even awake. He went back to bed, planning to confront Tithen in the morning.

Tithen remained huddled on the floor, not noticing that the bloody water was slowly soaking her nightdress.

He didn't understand, he didn't know. No one knew, no one understood. Why wouldn't he leave her alone? It was best this way; it was best if she was alone. When people helped her, it always ended in disaster. Ada had tried to help her, it ended in sorrow. No, it was best if she was alone.

She had always been alone, really.

No, not always. When she was here, she was not alone. When her brothers were here, she was not alone. When her naneth and ada were here, she was not alone.

But they were here no longer.

And she was alone.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn walked slowly down the stairs. Despite the fact that he was almost completely healed, Tithen had refused to allow him to traverse the stairs alone, for fear he would fall. But she was not in her room, and since it was early morning, he hoped that she was out tending to her animals.

He reached the first floor without incident and breathed a sigh of relief. He padded quietly down the many hallways, looking for nothing in particular, although the kitchen might have been nice to discover.

Rounding another corner, Aragorn came suddenly upon an open door. He slipped stealthily to it and then leaned against the doorframe, wondering whether he should laugh, or worry that Tithen had gone insane last night.

The way she was positioned on the sofa, one would have thought that she had sat down and someone had pulled the couch over backwards, so the back became the seat and the seat the back. Tithen was sleeping with her heading hanging upside down over the edge and a pillow clutched to her chest.

"Tithen?" he asked curiously. Tithen squeaked in fright and flipped herself, heels over head, stood up, spun around, and nearly fell as all the blood rushed from her head to her feet. Aragorn moved quickly forward and grasped her arms to steady her as she regained her balance. Her face was bright apple red and stray hair fell into her face.

"Don't _do_ that!" she panted as she tried to remain upright. "You gave me a fright!"

"Sorry," he apologized. "What were you doing, exactly?"

"I was trying to drain my sinuses and I fell asleep," she explained, still swaying slightly. "What are _you_ doing _here_!"

"Coming down stairs to find you," he replied. She shook him off and crossed her arms.

"Who said you could come downstairs?" she asked.

"Apricot," Aragorn said with a grin. "You know, you would look far more intimidating if you didn't look quite so funny."

Tithen looked up at her hair, and quickly pushed the flyaway back.

"Ha ha, very funny," she said sarcastically. She decided not to grace his first remark with comment. "Since you're down here anyway, you may as well eat breakfast and help me with the baking. Follow me."

She led him out into the hall. After several turns (Aragorn was beginning to wonder who designed this house—whoever it was must have had a very good sense of direction), they came to a long stretch of hall with a door at the end. Tithen stopped and looked at Aragorn with a laugh in her eye.

"Well, since you are fit enough to traverse stairs, let's see how well you can run!" she laughed, hitched up her skirts and bolted down the hallway.

"Hey!" Aragorn laughed as he took off after her.

Tithen crashed through the open door, skidded, and slammed into the table, shaking with laughter. Aragorn hurtled into the room a few seconds latter and had more luck, stopping before he hit the table. He collapsed into a chair chuckling.

"That was the most absurd thing I have ever seen you do!" he snorted.

"What?" she gasped. "Sit upside down, or race you down a hallway a month and a half after I dragged you here half-dead? If those are the most absurd things you've seen me do, you haven't seen a lot of me."

Aragorn's laughs were slow to subside. "I am having a hard time conceiving something more ridiculous than sitting upside down."

Tithen got up and prepared a plate of bread and honey and a mug of tea for each of them, then sat back down.

"Oh you didn't see some of the messes I got into with my brothers," she replied. "One day, Adan and Bargon told me that I couldn't sew a shirt while sitting on the barn roof. And so to prove them wrong, I did."

Aragorn stared at her. "You sat," he said incredulously, "And sewed a shirt. On the barn roof. To prove your brothers wrong." He shook his head sadly.

"That's not the least of it. They also told me that I couldn't jump off the roof with the shirt into a pile of hay, that only they could," she said "So I jumped. Unfortunately they were right—I couldn't land in the pile of hay. They had learned about trajectories, I had not. Luckily, it was the other barn, out in the fields, which is considerably lower to the ground. Jumping off the roof was one of their milder challenges though…" Aragorn laughed.

"I do not think I want to know," he told her. She grinned.

"That's what my father said. 'I don't want to know why you were on the roof, or why you fell off—I want to believe it was all a perfectly honest mistake,'" she laughed, and then grew quiet, staring at the toast crumbs on her plate. Aragorn reached out and lay a hand on her shoulder to comfort her. She jumped, startled. She shook herself, clearing her thoughts, and instantly returned to her brisk, pragmatic self.

"Let me check your arm," she commanded, pulling a pair of scissors from a pocket. Aragorn lay his left arm on the table and remained frozen while Tithen cut through the bandages. She ran her fingers over his arm, probing, turning it over. Aragorn never winced. Every now and again she would touch a sore spot, but the bones were essentially healed.

"Well," Tithen said, releasing his arm. "I think I shall declare your arm healed. But," she warned, "Don't take that as a sign that you can return to all normal activity and leave. First of all, you need to regain your strength. Second of all, the new flesh and bone will take some time to become as good as the old. Thirdly, you couldn't leave even if you wanted to. We're snowed into the valley until the thaw comes."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing. He had expected the typical healer warnings, but not the news that he was snowed in till spring. He was about to ask if Tithen often got snowed into her valley, but before he could ask, she pulled a length of string from her pocket and asked a question of her own.

"Have you ever played the game 'cat's cradle'?" she asked, tying the string into a loop. Aragorn shook his head. Tithen wrapped the string around her fingers, forming a net, and then, almost quicker than Aragorn could see, she had created a ladder, then a broom, and flying birds.

Tithen noticed him staring at her, and smiled sheepishly, disentangling her fingers from the string.

"Sorry, I was trying to figure out the best way to teach you," she explained as she undid a knot in the string. "And if you are wondering why I am trying to teach you a children's game, it will help you regain the strength and coordination of your fingers, having had them immobile for weeks. Aha!" she exclaimed as she succeeded in untangling the knotted string.

"Have you tended to your hand?" Aragorn asked bluntly and suddenly. He had avoided the topic until he was certain that she was reasonable and preferably in a good mood—this seemed to be the best chance. He had noticed a thin strip of rag wrapped around her hand, but that did not constitute tending to a deep cut.

"Of course," she said evasively, not looking at him. "Hold out your hands."

Aragorn crossed his arms. "Not until you let me look at your hand. You cut it very deep, Tithen, there's a good chance that a shard of the mug is in there, or that it could become infected."

"I said I took care of it," she replied testily. Aragorn raised an eyebrow at her. She scowled. "Hold out your hands."

"Not until you let me treat that cut," he said firmly. Tithen sighed angrily, then calmed down.

"Fine, I'll let you look at my hand _after_ we play cats' cradle, if you help me knead the bread afterwards."

Aragorn gave her a sidelong glance, and then agreed. He held out his hands and Tithen began to wind the looped string around his fingers, explaining the rules of the game. It took a few rounds for Aragorn to find the rhythm and pattern, but eventually he got it and they were soon trying new moves and seeing how fast they could go.

"Ah, ah, no! Drat!" she exclaimed after one round ended in a knotted string and entangled fingers. Aragorn leaned back in his chair and struggled to work his fingers free.

"You look like Adan after Gwenneth tried to teach him the ladder trick!" Tithen laughed, holding her sides and rocking back and forth at the sight of a warrior trapped by twine.

"Who's Gwenneth?" Aragorn asked automatically, still intent on freeing himself, which was proving to be rather difficult.

Her chuckles subsided immediately, a sorrowful silence followed. Very slowly, almost too quiet to hear, came her reply, "Gwenneth was my little sister."

Aragorn freed himself and looked at Tithen. She had wrapped her arms around herself, and unshed tears glistened in her eyes. The feeling of loss and grief permeated the room, it was almost palpable to Aragorn, sitting so close to the woman. Aragorn realized that he had inadvertently tricked her into revealing yet another piece of her past, and bring up obviously painful memories for Tithen. The fact that she used the past tense when referring to Gwenneth did not escape his notice.

Despite his curiosity and desire to finally unravel the mystery of Tithen, Aragorn had learned over the weeks that if Tithen did not proffer information, it did no good to pry, so he changed the subject.

"Let me see your hand now," he commanded. Tithen looked like she was about to refuse, so he reminded her of their deal. "I played cat's cradle. Now it's time for you to fulfill your part of the bargain."

Reluctantly, Tithen worked the knot on the rag free with her teeth and unwrapped her hand. She held it out to Aragorn for inspection, and he gently but firmly grasped it before she could change her mind.

He carefully looked at the wound. It was deeper than he had thought last night, and beginning to be red around the edges.

"I need to clean it, and stitch it closed, or it will become infected," he forestalled Tithen's inevitable protest. "It's already showing the first signs of infection. Where are the healing supplies?"

Tithen sighed frustrated. "I keep most things in my healer's bag. Over there, by the door," she gestured with her head to a sac hanging by the door over a pair of boots and next to a cloak. Aragorn got up and retrieved the bag. He sat back down and the table and rummaged through the bag for thread, needle, salve and bandages. He started to search for herbs to dull the pain, but Tithen stopped him.

"Don't, I don't need them," she told him. "I won't be able to find any more until late spring, don't waste it." Aragorn raised an eyebrow at her, and she calmly returned his gaze. "Trust me, I go through worse on a regular basis."

Aragorn was inclined to disbelieve her, but nonetheless heeded her request. Wetting a cloth at the sink, he carefully cleaned the lesion and then began to stitch it closed.

Tithen clenched her teeth and hissed at the pain, but did not move. She kept a stoic silence as Aragorn tied off the ends and gently rubbed the salve onto the wound. She would not admit it, to him or to herself, but she was glad that he had persisted—her hand was painful and had been bleeding freely all morning. She knew she should have let him treat it last night, but she was proud, and stubborn. She had sewn her own wounds closed for many years now. And part of her thought it to be a waste of thread. Why waste medicine on the dead?

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn was growing increasingly worried about Tithen as the week passed. There had been no more nightly disturbances since the night she had cut her hand, but he knew that that was only because Tithen had not slept. He had watched her take a stimulating herb religiously day in and day out. She had not slept in six days, except for an occasional half hour here and there when the stimulant wore off and she forgot to take more before her exhaustion forced her to sleep wherever she was. And even then she did not sleep long, for the nightmares would return, and she would awaken with a shout, quickly take more and busy herself with housework. Aragorn had found her asleep in corners, on stairs, and leaning against walls.

Tithen had tried to deny her sleeplessness to Aragorn, but there was no way for her to hide it. The stimulant had a pungent, though not unpleasant smell, and she looked wearied beyond measure. She was pale, her eyes looked she had gotten into a fight, and lost. She was limp, she shook and becoming incoherent.

Aragorn had a plan to make her sleep, at least one night. She needed to, and he knew that if she didn't stop taking the stimulant, her heart would give out, she would destroy her organs, and if she continued, she would die.

As they prepared to sit down to dinner, he saw Tithen slip the powered her into her water. When she left the room to fetch new napkins, he replaced her glass with his own, poured her drugged water down the sink, refilled it, and set it at his place. He crushed a few of the herb leaves and hid them under her plate, so she would smell it and not suspect his subterfuge.

Tithen returned, and as they ate, it was becoming evident that her last dose was wearing off—she was yawning almost incessantly, and beginning to droop in her chair.

"Tithen, you should go to bed," Aragorn warned as he watched her drink her water.

"No, I'll be fine," she said, gulping her water.

"Not if you are drinking that water," he warned. She gave him a sidelong look.

"Why, what did you do to it?" she asked warily, and yawned.

"I put a sedative in it. You need to sleep Tithen. You know as well as I do what will happen if you persist in taking that drug and don't sleep." Tithen glared angrily at him as she leaned on her head on her hand. Suddenly, her head slipped off as she began to doze and she jerked into wakefulness.

"Very well," she agreed reluctantly and stood, swaying. Aragorn rose and supported her as she walked unsteadily towards her bedroom. She went down the hall to change into her nightclothes and Aragorn lay more blankets on her bed. The night was frigid, as a fresh snowstorm had begun in the afternoon.

There was a soft thump in the hall and Aragorn went out to find Tithen had fallen asleep on her feet and collapsed on the floor. Carefully, so as not to disturb her, he picked her up and began to carry her back to her room.

As he lay her in her bed, woke up slightly and murmured, "You shouldn't pick me up…your arm…"

"Is fine," he said softly. "If I were in the wild, I would have been using it for several weeks now." She mumbled something, and then was sound asleep. Aragorn smiled as he went to his own room. He had not put anything in Tithen's drink. There was no need to. But he knew that if she thought he had, she wouldn't risk taking a stimulant as well.

He didn't know that Tithen would have preferred that he had. It might have prevented the events of that night.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

In the middle of the night, Aragorn woke with a start. At first he did not know what it was that had woken him. Then, as he listened to the silence of the house, his sensitive ears discerned the sound of soft footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the back door being opened.

Aragorn leapt out of bed and through the halls, hurtling down the stairs. He paused in the foyer to slip on his boots and wrap a cloak about his shoulders, before plunging after Tithen into the night.

It took him a moment to spot her, as her white nightgown blended in with the snowy landscape. In the midst of the swirling storm, thirty feet or so from the door, she stood, arms at her side, her dark hair whipping wildly about her, struggling to break free from her braid. Her face was up turned to the sky, and over the noise of the storm, Aragorn could hear her talking and pleading with someone.

"…Please, come back, don't leave me. Don't take her!…" she was crying to the night.

"Tithen!" he shouted, trying to catch her attention as he walked towards her. She spun around and stared wildly at him for a moment, backing away slowly.

"No, no, I won't go with you. She needs me! Gwenneth needs me, saes, please, no. NO!" she shrieked and bolted, running at break-neck speed through the night. Aragorn ran after her, calling her name, but she would only say, "No!" Suddenly, she fell, and collapsed into the snow. Aragorn caught up with her and dropped to his knees beside her. She was sobbing quietly, shivering in the frigid air.

"Tithen?" he inquired gently. "Tithen, are you alright?" She looked up at him, as though noticing him for the first time.

"Aragorn? Yes, I think I'm alright…" she tried to stand and fell back in the snow with a gasp. "Then again…"

"What is it?" Aragorn took his cloak off and wrapped it around her shoulders. He couldn't see much in the darkness.

"I twisted my ankle, it's nothing, I was just surprised," she told him light-heartedly. He helped her to her feet, and as she tried to take a step, kept her upright.

"I think you did more than just twist it," he told her. "Let's return to the house, and see what you did to it." Tithen nodded and let him help her back to the house and half-support, half-carry her up the stairs to her room. He fetched her dry clothes and left her to change while he went to fetch a warm drink and his healer's bag.

When he returned, she was huddled in a chair near the fire, arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to warm herself. Aragorn handed her a cup of tea (which he _had_ laced with a mild sedative, slow acting so that she would not notice) and wrapped a blanket around her. He lit the lamps in the room and then pulled a footrest in front of the chair, and sat on it.

He gently pulled he ankle onto his lap, and began to prod and rotate it, attempting to ascertain the extent of the damage.

"I don't think it's broken," he told her, "But you definitely tore some ligaments, and you could have broken one of the smaller bones I can't feel. I'll wrap it, and you should try to stay off it for a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" she said, slurring her words as Aragorn rubbed a balm on her foot and ankle to help relax the muscles that would tense in response the injury, as soon as it had regained sensation, having been numbed by the cut. "I'll need to plant crops in a few weeks!"

"Well, we'll find someone to help you, because unless you want a permanent limp, you'll have to stay off this foot. There," he said as he finished wrapping her foot. Tithen didn't respond. She had fallen asleep again

Aragorn tucked her into bed and stoked the fire to burn warmly until morning. He hoped that this would be the last of the nightly disturbances. She had gone from simple nightmares, to night terrors, and now to sleep walking. He decided to try and convince Tithen to confide in him what it was that she so desperately wanted to hide. It was killing her, he thought sadly as he returned to bed, to keep it locked within her.

His word's were all too true.


	13. The Breaking Point

**The Breaking Point

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**

Aragorn rose early the next morning in order to complete Tithen's chores before she woke. If she woke, and there were still things left to be done, she would be up and about trying to do them, regardless of her ankle.

It took him about two hours to complete the morning tasks, but they were done before the clock chimed seven. Aragorn fixed a tray of breakfast for himself and Tithen of rolls, ham and tea, and was carrying it upstairs to her bedroom when he heard a muffled thump. He ran up the stairs, paused long enough to put the tray down and ran into her chamber to find her kneeling on the floor next to her bed. Aragorn shook his head and went to her side to help her back into bed.

"Did I not tell you to stay off your ankle for at least a week?" he asked exasperatedly as he pulled the blankets over her. Tithen crossed her arms petulantly and scowled at him.

"You said I should stay off it, but you did not specify for how long. And it does not matter, planting time is only a few weeks away, there are chores to be done, thi-" Aragorn held up his hand and cut her off mid-sentence.

"Today's chores are already done, and, as you said, planting is weeks away, which means that you have weeks to let your ankle heal," he reasoned with her before fetching the tray from the landing.

"But you wont be here all that time," she pointed out. "You will be gone as soon as the pass thaws, and that is not more than a week or two from now."

Aragorn laughed and set the tray of food between them. "Forgive me if I do not believe you, my lady. It has done little but snow since I arrived and another storm brews as we speak."

Tithen grinned and took a roll. "I think you would be surprised at the rapidity with which spring comes to my valley, my friend. This storm will most likely be the worst and the last. After this one, there is little chance there will be another, and warm weather will soon follow it."

"Be that as it may," Aragorn said, sipping his tea and grinning, "I will stay until I deem your ankle healed, or can find someone capable of keeping you in bed."

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

"Tithen, for the sake of the Valar, stay in bed!"

Aragorn picked up Tithen from the floor where she had fallen after once again attempting to get out of bed. He was getting rather frustrated with her refusal to heed his warnings, but he could see that she was even more frustrated than he. Clearly, she did not like to be bed-bound.

"Aragorn, I must do something! I cannot lie here idle!" she said and sighed. There were few things she hated more than orcs, but being idle in bed was one of them. Having someone around who could actually force her too was worse. Good for her, but worse.

Aragorn sighed. "Tithen, if you don't stay in bed as you're told, I will have to drug you and tie you to it!"

Tithen stared at her hands like a scolded child. "Give me something to do," she pleaded. "Knitting, mending, anything! I'll stay in bed, I swear, just give me something to do!"

Aragorn nodded and fetched her knitting bag and sewing box from the other side of the room. To his surprise, they did the trick. Occupied with these chores, Tithen remained almost quietly in her bed for the rest of the day.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn flopped into his bed and pulled the blankets over his head. It had been a long, amusing, frustrating, and allover tiring day

Aragorn chuckled to himself. She was a healer's worst nightmare of a patient, but he found it rather amusing to see their positions reversed and discover she was worse at being injured than he was. He would have to tell Elrond when he returned to Rivendell; Elrond firmly believed that there was no human in Middle Earth more difficult to heal than his foster son.

With the comforting thoughts that he had gotten Tithen to sleep again this night and that hopefully whatever it was that troubled her was either past or she would confide in him soon, Aragorn drifted to sleep.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn could not have been wrong—Tithen was neither sleeping, nor was she untroubled. She was tossing and turning her bed, muttering to herself, wrestling with feelings of guilt, grief, and hopelessness.

It was about midnight before these thoughts ceased to trouble her; not because she had come to terms with her past, but because she had reached a decision—it was easier to deal with the future than the past.

Tithen rummaged under her bed and found a pair of boots. She pulled them on and laced it tightly around her injured ankle, to hold it in place and allow her to walk. She pulled a surcoat over her nightdress, to keep the loose folds of cloth out of her way—she did not want to be hampered.

She put on her belt, and assured herself that Aragorn had not removed anything from it. Nothing was missing, and so she started downstairs, moving stiffly, stoically, and silently, so as not to wake Aragorn. He would not understand why she must do this.

I'm coming Gwenneth, she thought to herself. At last, I'm coming.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn woke with a start, and listened to the sounds of the night. At first he heard nothing over the sounds of the storm, but slowly he discerned a separate moan from that of the weather. The sound of despair.

Realization hit him with painful force, and he jumped out of bed, pulled on his boots and ran downstairs, pausing only to grab a cloak, a lantern and his healer's bag. If he knew anything, it was that he would need it.

He ran outside, and began following the footprints in the snow, hoping he could find her before the storm obliterated her tracks.

Why hadn't he seen it before? Why had he not recognized the signs? Why had he not pressed her to share her troubles more? Aragorn silently cursed himself for failing to listen to his healer's instincts.

He should have recognized it the moment she refused to take care of her sickness and began to have nightmares. How many times had he seen young rangers and soldiers do the same thing, after their first encounter with the death of innocents and friends? How many times had he helped old soldiers, old battle-weary rangers deal with this, as with nothing to do they remembered every death they felt responsible for, every mistake they ever made?

He could only hope he found her in time.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Tithen stood frozen in the snow, staring at the mounds in front of her, around her. The ones behind her were of ancestors, long dead—she knew only their names, and perhaps their face from a painting, maybe a humorous anecdote or what part of her house they built. But that was all. They were some how unreal, she had never known their touch, their smile, never seen them suffer.

But the mounds in front of her, the people buried there were different—they were her family: her father, her mother, Adan, Bargon…Gwenneth. They lay in these mounds, cold, still, in the darkness where no light ever shone. They were real—she had known them, touched them, felt their love, seen them dead, or dying.

She began to scream and sob, throwing herself to her knees before the graves of her family. Her cries were echoed on the wind, which sang its own dirge, mourning for all the lives that had been lost throughout the ages, for those that would not see another sunrise. It mourned for the lives touched by evil, for those who toiled on the dusty plains of Gorgoroth, for whom the wind only stirred the dust, and brought no relief from the heat. But the moans of wind and woman were heeded only by the mountains, which stood watch over the valley. The mountains had known all those buried in the mounds, and respected them. They were good for Men, not as good as elves at tending the earth, but they had known that the earth allowed them to till it, and that nature was more powerful than they. The mountains had watched them for the thousands of years that they had lived under their shadow, and the mountains hoped that the man with the blood of Melian in his veins would find the woman before her dwelling was a mound—they did not want new men in their valley. The mountains did not like change, and at least with Tithen, they knew what to expect.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn's wishes were very much the same as the mountains—that he found Tithen before it was too late. He struggled through the snow, amazed that she had gotten so far with her injured ankle, and wondering why she would travel so far to complete a fairly simple task...

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Tithen beat her fists against the stone doors that guarded the bones of her mother and father, Adan and Bargon, and of Gwenneth. She knew that she was acting childish, throwing a tantrum because she wanted her family, but she didn't care. There was no one to see her, and she wanted to scream her anger and pain to the skies before she saw her family again.

Saline tears streamed down her face, blood trickled from cuts on her hands, the icy air tore at her raw throat. At last, she dropped to her knees again before the grave of her sister.

"Gwenneth, oh, muinthel nin, forgive me, please, I did all I could!" she wept, as her fingers sought the handle of her dagger. "I tried, baby, I tried! I couldn't find you, I couldn't find you, and she sent me back, they wouldn't let me follow, Gwenneth! Please, forgive me!"

Tears continued to flow from her eyes as she drew her knife and wrapped her fingers around the hilt, the tip of the blade hovering a few inches from her heart.

"I'm coming now, though, little sister. They can't stop me this time. I promised I would protect you, now I can fulfill that promise," she sobbed as she readied herself and thrust the blade towards her chest.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn stumbled through the snow, slightly bewildered as to what direction to travel. The snow and wind had wiped clean Tithen's tracks, and the wind blowing the snow in all directions made it hard to see.

He tried to listen and hear her cries, and let them lead him to her, but it was impossible to distinguish human cries from the moan of the wind.

Aragorn stood in the snow, about to gamble which way to go, when something told him to continue on straight ahead. He did not know whether it was instinct, or a spirit on the wind guiding him, but Aragorn heeded the advice and raced ahead once again, praying to any Valar that would listen that he would be in time.

oxoxoxoxoxoxo

She had failed.

Again.

Some will other than her own had guided the dagger blade. Instead of breaking her sternum and piercing her heart, it had entered her body several inches down and an inch or so over, breaking ribs, and grazing her lung. The blade had not pierced it, but with every breath, the soft flesh scraped against hard steel.

She had failed.

No, she hadn't failed. Yet.

All she had to do was wait.

Eventually, she would lose too much body heat, become hypothermic, lose consciousness, and freeze to death.

Or she would bleed to death.

Or both.

All she had to do was wait.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Aragorn at last caught sight of her, kneeling in the snow near…now he understood why she had left the house to die. She had come to the barrows, to be near the graves of her family.

This thought spurred Aragorn to put on greater speed—it showed that she had thought about her decision, which meant that she would be determined to die, and there would be very little reasoning with her.

After what seemed to be an eternity to Aragorn, he reached her side and crouched in the snow.

"Tithen," he asked and lay a hand on her shoulder. As he spoke, he felt her tense, and he leaned forward to look her in the face. "Tithen, are you alright?"

She turned her head to look at him, tears running down her cheeks. She looked like a lost, frightened child.

"I couldn't save her, Estel," she whispered. "I tried, but she was gone, and they wouldn't let me follow," she began to sob. "She was all alone, and they wouldn't let me go to her!"

"Tithen-" Aragorn started, but she jerked away.

"I won't let them this time. I won't let you stop me!" she shouted, and then, once again, she broke into sobs. "Please don't stop me. Let me die."

Aragorn said nothing, but slowly looked to see what she was clutching to her chest, and was horrified, but not surprised to see the hilt of a dagger glinting in the light of his lantern.

"You will not stop me Estel! You won't! You won't! I won't let you!" she screamed hysterically, leaning warily away from him.

Aragorn made a split second decision. He had never hit a woman before, but there was a first time for everything, and there was nothing else he could think to do.

Before Tithen could move any more and do irreparable damage to herself, Aragorn hit her over the head with his fist, and caught her as she crumpled. Positioning his lantern so that he could see, he carefully leaned her inert body against his knee and examined the position of the stab wound. He listened to her breathing, and was relieved not to hear the sounds of fluid, of blood in her lungs.

He took a soft pad from his sack, and with his left hand withdrew the dagger when she exhaled and clamped the pad to the wound with his right. He held it there very tightly for a moment before binding it as tightly as he could.

Knowing that he could not carry both Tithen and the lantern, he extinguished the flame and left the lantern in the shadow of the mound. He unwrapped the cloak from about his shoulders and wrapped Tithen in it. He did not want to have her become hypothermic, because hypothermia combined with shock and blood loss was as deadly as a Morgul blade.

Silently, Aragorn stumbled through the night back towards the house, carrying the woman who had rescued him from another snowstorm. In the darkness, it was difficult for him to know where he was going, and so he listened to the small voice on the wind that told him to go straight ahead, towards the dim light and shadowy hulk in the distance.

He could only hope he hadn't arrived too late.

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A/N: A surcoat is like a jumper, or a dress without sleeves, not a jacket. Hope you like this chapter, I hope to have the next one up soon. 


	14. To Heal a Wounded Soul

** To Heal a Wounded Soul

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**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Aragorn, Middle Earth etc and I am not a doctor.

Congratulations to Ellahir, the 42nd reviewer! Yeah! And a big thank you to all my other reviewers. Virtual cookies will go to the 50th reviewer, 56th and 60th.

Please, please please leave me a review! It makes my day.

* * *

Aragorn lay Tithen gently on her bed and unwrapped the cloak from her shivering form. Working quickly, he slit the bandages and the fabric around the wound, doing his best to allow Tithen some modesty for the time being. 

Aragorn hissed through his teeth when he saw the true damage Tithen had inflicted on herself. The stab wound was vertical, and had broken two, possibly three ribs. However, it also meant that the chances that she hadn't punctured a lung were much greater than with a horizontal stab.

Aragorn closed his eyes and gently slid his fingers into the wound, feeling for the extent of the internal injuries. To his relief, the lung had not been pierced or torn greatly, so there was a reduced risk of her drowning in her own blood, but the knife's edge had made thin, shallow cuts on the fleshy organ's surface. To Aragorn, this spelled trouble—combined with Tithen's hacking cough, the tears could become larger and eventually cause the lung to collapse. As much as Aragorn would like to have Tithen cough the congestion out of her lungs, he would have to use a strong suppressant.

Aragorn replaced the temporary bandage and set about checking the rest of Tithen. She was shivering, her pulse was weak and slightly erratic, her breathing shallow and raspy.

Aragorn pulled the bedclothes over her limp body and began to build up the fire, thankful that Tithen kept a pot of hot water on her hearth at night, for either hot water bottles or tea, which ever she fancied.

Aragorn lit the many candles and lamps in Tithen's room and set to work. He let his healer's instincts and prerogatives take over as he gently stripped her of her sodden, bloody, frigid clothes and dried her skin with soft towels, rubbing her hands and feet to help them regain circulation. Her toes and fingers had turned slightly blue, and had she been in the cold much longer would have become frostbitten. For the time being, Aragorn left her injured ankle in the boot, so it was at least held still while he tended to the stab wound.

Just as Aragorn was preparing the needle, suture and antiseptic to clean and stitch her wound, Tithen murmured for a few moments, and then fell silent. Too silent, Aragorn thought, and held a small mirror to her lips—no mist appeared on the polished surface.

"No Tithen, I'm not going to let you die," Aragorn muttered as he began massaging her abdomen, hoping to stimulate her diaphragm into working. After a moment, he breathed slowly into her lungs, forcing breath into her, hoping to sustain her long enough to get her to breathe on her own. He carefully sat her up, lay his ear on her back, and listened to the sounds of her lungs. He was relieved to hear a heartbeat in her chest and no sound of fluid. He lay her back down on several pillows, in the hopes that the different position would help her to breathe. He pressed firmly on her stomach, forcing anything in her lungs out. Still she did not breathe.

Barely aware of what he was doing, Aragorn lay his right hand across her forehead and his left hand on her hand.

_Aragorn saw her in the distance, standing at the border between life and death. He raced towards her, knowing that if she stepped through the shadowy veil, she would not be able to return._

_As he drew closer, he could see that on the other side stood a small figure, and as he arrived at Tithen's side Aragorn could see that on the other side stood a little girl, no more than six years in age. Tithen turned to Aragorn, looking at him pleading, sorrowful eyes._

"_Estel, please, let me go to her. See," she pointed to the girl on the other side and as she did her finger brushed the veil. "Gwenneth is all alone. She's waiting for me."_

_Aragorn looked at the little girl and she smiled at him. _

"_Aragorn," she said, her voice like bells in the distance, "Take Meren home. It's not her time yet," she reached out and touched Tithen's hand, which remained halfway through the shadow. "Meren, don't do this. I'm alright here. Naneth and Ada and Bergon and Adan are all here. And Grandma's here, and Grandpa and everyone else. I'm alright. Go home."_

_Tithen began to weep. "Gwenneth, I tried…"_

"_Shh," Gwenneth said. "I know. It was my time. There was nothing you could have done. Go home Meren. There is still much for you to do."_

_Tithen nodded silently, tears streaming from her eyes, slowly withdrew her hand, and began to drift back to the land of sleep, away from death, but Gwenneth held Aragorn back a moment._

"_Aragorn," she said, "I want you to give this to my sister," she held out what seemed to be a small flame out to him, and it drifted across the barrier to land in his outstretched hand. "Don't let her know." She smiled at Aragorn. "Take care of her. Please, Aragorn, take care of her." She started to drift away into the shadows._

_Aragorn smiled at the disappearing figure and then went to where Tithen was sitting, and lay the hand holding the flame on her shoulder, where the flame seemed to be absorbed. She jumped and then looked at him._

"_What was that?" she asked and looked at her shoulder. Aragorn shrugged, and returned to where he needed to be._

When he became aware of his surroundings again, Tithen had begun to breathe again and Aragorn watched her intently for a few minutes to make sure that she continued to breathe. As soon as he was sure that the danger had passed for the moment, he turned his attention once again to the wound.

Thankfully, it was a clean cut, she had not twisted the knife at all, simply…stabbed…and held it there…waiting…to bleed out…drown…die.

As Aragorn cleaned and stitched the wound closed, he wondered what had happened to her to drive her to suicide. Clearly, it had something to do with Gwenneth dying, but what did Tithen think she could have done, and failed to do?

Aragorn bound soft pads to the wound and tucked layers of blankets around Tithen, leaving her hands and ankle exposed, as he still had to treat them. He would have liked to put some hot water bottles near her, but he could not find any.

Carefully, Aragorn unlaced the boot and slid it off her foot. He winced sympathetically at the sight of her ankle. It had turn a dark purpling-blue and become very swollen. Aragorn gently felt the bones—it was as he had feared—she had managed to break one of the small bones. She had probably cracked it when she fell and the added pressure of running on it completed the break.

After setting the bone and wrapping the ankle and foot in layers of bandages because he could not splint it, Aragorn turned his attention to Tithen's hands. Tenderly, he washed the blood off, shaking his head as he saw that most of the blood had come from the deep cuts on her knuckles and palms and not from the wound. One at a time, he took her hand in his, gently rubbing a healing balm on the cuts and scrapes before bandaging them. As he worked, he softly hummed a tune often sung by homesick rangers longing for a soft bed and warm meal. The tune was hopeful, but at the same time sad and mournful.

When he was done, Aragorn lay several more blankets over Tithen. He smiled sadly as he brushed a last few tears from her face. Over the weeks, he had a come to feel like an older brother to her. He wanted to protect her, from the pain of her past and from herself. He knew he did not need to protect her from the world—she had explained to him all the safeguards protecting her valley, and particularly her house. He would have gladly taken the pain of her stab wound if he could.

"Tithen, what can I do to help you? If you do not tell me how you are wounded, how can I help you heal?" he asked her quietly as he brushed hair out of her face. She began to stir, tears trickling from behind her closed eyelids. She mumbled something in her sleep and her hand began to grasp for something. Aragorn placed his hand near hers, and she clasped it like a lifeline. Aragorn gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and settled himself on the edge of the bed to wait for her to awake.

It was nearly dawn before she began to come round. Aragorn had found himself dozing off now and then in the intervening hours, but as soon as Tithen stirred and opened her eyes, he was awake and alert.

"Tithen?" he said softly, so as not to scare her. She started and stared frightenedly at him for a moment before relaxing. She licked her cracked, dry lips and mouthed silently, "water."

Aragorn rose and poured a mug of water from the pitcher on her dresser. He slid an arm behind her shoulders and helped her to sit up and drink before laying her back down.

"Thank you," she croaked, her voice hoarse from her tirade the night before.

Aragorn nodded. "You're welcome." He paused for a moment before continuing. "Tithen, tell me about your sister. You were talking to her last night. What happened?"

Tithen looked away, blinking rapidly; Aragorn reached out and gently turned her to look at him.

"Tithen, look at me. I want to help you. But I cannot help if you don't tell me what is wrong."

Tithen bit her lip and looked into his eyes. She did not want to tell, she wanted to die. But in Aragorn's eye's she found strength, calm, and concern for her, and so she began.

"When Gwenneth was born, she was really little. The mid-wife didn't think she was likely to survive, but she did. She was terribly frail and delicate though," Tithen picked at the quilt and paused before continuing. "When she was two, she became very ill. The healer from the village couldn't do anything, Gwenneth just kept coughing, and coughing. She was so small, and one day, after coughing for a long time, she stopped breathing, and the healer couldn't make her breathe again. And then, I don't know why I did it, I put my hand on her and I was there, in the spirit world," she licked her lips and looked to Aragorn for understanding. "I was only six, I was scared. But then I saw her, halfway through the curtain, and I grabbed her and pulled her back and I held her. I didn't know where to go though, or what to do, so I just wandered with her, hoping to find a way back. Then, a lady showed up. I asked her if she could take us home. She said that only I could do that, but she would help show me the way. And she did. I woke up a few days later, and Gwenneth was getting better. I had scared my parents and everyone else. The healer said that I had been blessed by Estë, and that is why I could do what I did and that when I was older my parents should apprentice me to her," Tithen stopped and began to yawn, but stopped when it hurt too much. She had not answered his question, she had just started her story, but she did not want to continue, to face the past yet, and she was tired. "Please Aragorn, let me sleep."

Aragorn nodded. "Of course. Sleep and heal. But why do you call me 'Aragorn'?"

"'s your name," she murmured before drifting back to sleep.

Aragorn nodded and gently kissed her forehead before rising to make more cough medicine to feed her while she was asleep. It was easier to get her take medicine while she was unaware of the fact.

"Poor Tithen," he whispered as he fed her the thick, bitter liquid and waited for her to swallow reflexively. "But you still haven't answered my question. Why do you want to die?"


	15. Spirits

**Spirits

* * *

**

"No, please, Gwenneth, come back. Please, Gwenneth, please…please," Tithen sobbed in her fevered sleep, shaking her head from side to side and grasping weakly, seeking for her lost sister.

Aragorn sighed and clasped her hand gently before sitting on the bed beside her and carefully pulling her to him, letting her head rest on his chest, her hand grasping his shirt.

"Ada?" she whimpered, staring up at him with fever-glazed eyes that did not truly see.

"Yes, tithen mîn," he murmured quietly as he gently rocked her in his arms, humming softly and stroking her hair soothingly. Slowly, her sobs subsided and she grew quiet; gradually, she relaxed and settled against Aragorn, her hand lessening it's death-grip on his tunic.

Moving slowly and cautiously, so as not to jerk Tithen, Aragorn reached behind him and fetched a small flask off of the nightstand. He uncorked it with his free hand and lightly touched it to her lips.

"Drink, little one," he said softly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, childlike trust in her eyes.

"Ada?" she whispered again. The face above her was familiar, though blurred, the deep, soothing voice, the rumble in his chest as he spoke, the strength of his arms as he held her through the nightmares, they all spoke to her of her father.

"Yes, aerr," Aragorn said and lightly touched her lips with the flask again. "Drink, saes, it will help with the pain, I promise."

Tithen closed her eyes and drank from the flask slowly. When he thought she had taken enough, Aragorn took it from her lips and replaced it on the nightstand.

"Ada?"

"Yes?"

"Sing. Please. My song," she murmured sleepily as the sedatives in the water began to take effect.

Aragorn nodded and resumed stroking her hair and rocking gently. "Certainly, tithen mîn," he whispered.

Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay  
Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay.

Estë watches over thy sleep  
By by lullee, lullay  
Sleep without fear, sleep without dread  
By by lullee, lullay.

Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay  
Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay.

Dawn will come, darkness swiftly fade  
By by lullee, lullay  
Anor's light will shine over thee  
By by lullee, lullay.

Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay  
Lullay, my little tiny child,  
By by lullee, lullay…

Tithen listened to the sound of the ancient lullaby, letting it sooth her aching head and rock her to sleep. She pressed her ear close to Aragorn's chest, listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart and the deep rumble in his chest as he sang, thinking him to be her father, and herself a child again. A ten-year-old girl, already broken and bruised with the weight she had taken on her shoulders. A weight far too great for anyone to carry, let alone a child. This last thought was not her thought, but it was the truth, and it was what her father had told her, 14 years ago.

Aragorn let his voice gradually fade to nothingness as he felt Tithen's breathing ease and her body grow limp against him. He continued to hold her however, and slowly shifted his position so that he could lean against the headboard as he held his former hostess and now patient. Moving carefully, he pulled the blankets around her and another around his shoulders.

Aragorn rested his head on the headboard and sighed, exhausted after two sleepless days and nights of caring for Tithen. As much as he did not want to admit it, even he, with elvish blood and considerable gifts in healing, was truly not yet completely healed from his battle with the orcs. Stab wounds took many months to heal, he reminded himself bitterly as he shifted his burden so as to avoid touching Tithen's own wound.

Sleepily, he glanced down at the foot of the bed, where at least a dozen cats and kittens had congregated over the past two days, a purring, mewing, warm mass. He had welcomed their company, and they seemed to have a calming effect on Tithen. The only thing that bothered him was where all the cats had come from?

_Aragorn jerked his head up. I must have dozed off, he thought. Shaking sleep from his eyes, he cast a glance over the foot of the bed to see whether the cat population had grown. _

_To his shock, sitting cross-legged amongst the cats was a young girl. The same young girl he had seen on the other side of the veil. The one who had told Tithen to return home. She smiled sweetly at him._

"_Hail, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Elendil," she said. Aragorn was too shocked for the moment to respond. _

"_Do not be afraid," she said. "You have not died, and neither has my sister. This is a dream. I am called Gwenneth."_

_Aragorn found his voice again. _

"_Gwenneth?" he asked, not believing his senses. He had experienced many strange things in his sixty years of life, but he had never yet talked to a dead person._

_She nodded. "Yes, I am Gwenneth. I would speak to you concerning my sister," the girl gazed sadly at the woman in Aragorn's arms. "Poor Meren. She has not lived up to her name yet. But," she said brightly, "Hopefully, we can change that. Umm, perhaps you would follow me? We may find it easier to talk outside. Don't worry about Meren," she reached out and yanked Aragorn forward, so that he stumbled onto the floor. "See?" she pointed to the bed, where a sleeping Aragorn was cradling a sleeping Tithen._

_Gwenneth hopped off the bed and motioned for Aragorn to follow her through the door. As she touched the door handle, she turned around and, looking up at Aragorn, said, "Please, do not question how this is possible. Please, just accept that it is and send a prayer of thanks to Lord Irmo, Lord Lorien and Ladies Este and Nienna. An explanation involves numerous rules, regulations, loopholes, special cases, and other things even _I _don't understand," she paused and turned to open the door. "And one understands an awful lot when one is dead."_

_Though Aragorn did not see how he could possibly be more shocked than he was at having a conversation with a dead six-year-old, clearly it was, as he was even more shocked to discover that the door in Tithen's room, which normally led to the hall, had opened onto a sunlit spring field._

_Gwenneth took Aragorn's large, rough hand in her own. She was surprised at how solid it felt. It had been a long time, or so it felt, since she had touched anything living._

_Aragorn was also surprised at how solid her hand felt. She was a spirit, and he half expected her hand to pass right through his own. He looked down at her in wonderment._

_Gwenneth flashed a smile that only six-year-olds are capable of producing, and began to run, pulling him behind her. She knew who he was. She knew he was the future king of Gondor, she knew everyone in his lineage. She had, in fact, met most of them. However, it mattered little to her. For now, he was Aragorn, or Estel, the man who could help her sister, be her hands and voice, now that she had none. It mattered not, for the moment, to her that Aragorn was of such a high lineage, or that what she was helping him do would help many other of her kin in the future—these facts were irrelevant to Gwenneth, though not to those who had given her permission she needed. All she cared about was her sister, and helping her to heal._

_Aragorn ran behind her, still too bewildered to ask the thousands of questions burning in his mind. How was this possible? Why had she come? Why was she talking to him? Could she answer the question of why Tithen had tried to commit suicide?_

_Gwenneth stopped running and plopped down into the grass, clearly wishing Aragorn to sit as well, and so he did. Though he did not think that she could actually do him any harm in a dream, he thought it best to follow her lead._

"_You have many questions, I am sure," she said, absent-mindedly weaving the meadow flowers into a wreath, "But for the moment, I ask that you would humor me, and answer my questions. In answering, you may find the answers you seek." _

_Aragorn nodded. "Of course, my Lady," he replied. "Though, I am sure that anything I could know you already possess the knowledge of."_

_She laughed. Once again, it struck Aragorn how like bells in the distance this child's voice and laugh were._

"_Please, call me Gwenneth. And there is no need to be so formal. I merely speak like this because there is little call for verbal communication in the house I live in now. As we speak, language will flow more easily for me. You are correct, I do possess a great deal of the knowledge I will ask of you, but I would have it from you anyway. Perspective is…different, where I am now. And yes, my brothers always said my voice was like bells; they sound distant because, not to be blunt, I am dead."_

_Once again, Aragorn nodded, slightly disburbed by the fact that was seemingly capable of reading his mind. "Very well, Gwenneth. What do you wish to know?"_

"_Firstly, how does my sister fair?"_

_Aragorn elegantly raised an eyebrow._

"_Yes, I do know how she fairs, but I would hear it from you. It will tell me how I may help you, and her, best."_

"_Very well," Aragorn repeated and then sighed, his shoulders sagging as he turned his mind to his patient. _

"_She does not fair well. Physically, she is near to death. The knife broke two ribs, and sliced her lung, not deeply, but deep enough that should she struggle greatly, she would tear it badly. I have had to give her a heavy cough suppressant and sedate her constantly. The first morning, after she woke and began her story, she fell asleep, and was trapped in a nightmare. She fought violently, and tore open her wound before I could calm her. It does not help matters that she has a fever," Gwenneth nodded, and waited for him to continue. "Emotionally, she is badly wounded and scarred, but since she will not tell me by what, I am of little power to help her," Aragorn looked sadly at the young girl, silently hoping that his prayer would be answered in this girl, that she would help him to heal Tithen's wounded soul. "The only thing I know for sure is that it has something to do with your death."

* * *

_

_

* * *

_As always, thank you to my wonderful readers, and especially to my loyal reviewers, as well as my new ones. Please, please review, it makes my day.

the lullaby is my variation of the coventry carol.

aerr-daughter

tithen min-little one


	16. Live and Love

**Live and Love

* * *

**

Recap:

_Gwenneth nodded, and waited for him to continue. "Emotionally, she is badly wounded and scarred, but since she will not tell me by what, I am of little power to help her," Aragorn looked sadly at the young girl, silently hoping that his prayer would be answered in this girl, that she would help him to heal Tithen's wounded soul. "The only thing I know for sure is that it has something to do with your death."

* * *

_

Back to the Story.

* * *

_Gwenneth bowed her head. What should she do? Tell him all? Tell him only as much as he needed to know? Tell him nearly nothing? Should she burden him this way? Such thoughts were foolish, she reminded herself. The Valar would not have let her do this if they did not think it wise, for her, Meren or Aragorn. Too much was now at stake._

"_You are right, of course," she began softly, gathering all her strength and courage to tell the story. "All of Meren's troubles begin with me. I believe she has told you of what happened when I was two and she six?"_

"_Yes, she has," Aragorn replied, watching the child in front of him intently. The joy that had emanated from her earlier had dissipated, to be replaced by sorrow. "But you survived, so that cannot be what haunts her."_

_Gwenneth took a deep breath. This was not easy for her. _

"_It is not what haunts her, but it is where the trouble started. Do you know what happens the first time an untrained, but gifted healer brings back someone from the brink of death?"_

_Aragorn shook his head. "No, only that it is not good for either the healer or the healed."_

"_Precisely. Lord Elrond is very wise to teach you that," she paused, thinking of the best way to describe it. "When Meren's healer spirit took over and she followed me into the spirit realm, she had no knowledge to draw on, only instinct. When she saw me passing through the veil, her instinct told her to step part way through as well, and then draw both of us back to life, which she did, not knowing better._

"_But she should not have stepped through the barrier, even part way. When she did, she connected herself, ever so slightly, to the side of death; a lifeline, a spiders thread of sorts, if that is not contradictory._

"_But even beyond that, because of the way she followed me and healed me, because we went part way through the veil together, and she did not know how to prevent it, our spirits were…welded…or fused, together. Our spirits became like conjoined twins."_

"_Ahh," Aragorn said, beginning to understand. He had heard of such things from Elrond, and he knew that a milder form of this occurred in all twins and multiple-birth children, like his foster brothers._

"_Fortunately, she subconsciously learned after we joined not to do it. It is the burned hand that teaches best the lessons about fire," Gwenneth assured Aragorn. "But we were joined, and neither of us knew of anyway to undo it; we did not know that it had occurred._

"_But from that moment, Meren took on a burden that no one should, or indeed can, carry—she made herself guardian of my life. She felt that she was the only one who could protect me, heal me, and that if I died, it would be her fault."_

_Gwenneth looked at Aragorn with eyes blazing with sorrow and anger. "She was a six-year-old child! No one could have done what she tried to do. She had taken the weight of the world, her world, on her shoulders, and it was slowly crushing her. She was a child, growing up under that weight!"_

_She calmed herself with effort. She needed to tell him, but only enough. He would have to hear Meren tell it if she were to heal._

"_The winter I was six, and she ten, I contracted pneumonia. You may remember that Meren told you I had never been strong, and that the midwife had not actually expected me to live more than a few days. My parents knew that I was with them on borrowed time, and knew that this was most likely to be my last sickness. But Meren refused to listen to reason. She had made herself guardian of my life, and was determined not to fail._

"_Meren was ten," the little girl emphasized to Aragorn. "A child. You, a fully trained healer, could have done nothing for me. She was untrained, and trying to save her world._

"_She had been awake for five days, trying to keep me alive and heal me. My parents had wanted to fetch the healer as soon as they noticed me coughing, but a storm had started and they knew better than to rise out in it. They would have gladly risked their lives, but they knew that they would never make it to the village to fetch the healer, let alone bring her back._

"_Finally, the storm subsided. Desperate to save both their daughters, they agreed that Ada should take Meren with him to fetch the healer. They could see that she was as close to death as I was, and hoped that she would sleep during the ride."_

_"What happened to her after that, I do not know. My parents will not tell me, and I do not have any knowledge of it simply because I am dead. I know she must have felt the tearing as my spirit, and part of her's, crossed the barrier, but I have no recollection of dying," she concluded regretfully. "You will have to press her for information. You will have to gently force her to tell you, or she will never heal. Now, it is time for you to return to a more restful sleep. There is much I must tell you, and we have much to do before my sister can truly heal, so you will be seeing more of me," Gwenneth lay her small hand on Aragorn's head. "Go now, with my blessings, that you may be a blessing unto my sister. When she wakes, tell her this. 'We live and we love. We forgive. We never give up.' She will understand." And Aragorn knew no more.

* * *

_

AN: "_We live" etc is taken from a Superchick song of the same name._

_Eleanor Rigby- who says the story ends when the snow melt? It's going to take more than one story to completely heal this girl. (This, by the way, is a shameless hint that there is a sequel in the making.)_

_Luinthien- well, he learned something, but not everything. Hope you enjoyed it!_


	17. Bear One Another's Burden

**Bear One Another's Burden's

* * *

**

Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ. Galatians 6:2

* * *

_AN-_Merry Christmas/Happy Channukah/Happy Kawanza/Happy Rahmadan/Happy Micellaneous Winter holidays!

* * *

_  
Gwenneth sat once again at the foot of the dream-bed she had created as surroundings for her, Aragorn's and her sister's spirits. She had sent Aragorn back to his much needed sleep. She knew he would need to be well rested if he were to help carry out her, what were they? Dying wishes? She was already dead. Commands? Orders? That implied she had power over him, which she didn't--there was no way for her to force Aragorn to help Meren.. Requests? That did not seem to be the right verb either. _

_Gwenneth gazed with love and sadness at her sister, who was sleeping peacefully in Aragorn's arms, thanks to the drugs he had given her. Gwenneth wanted to tell her that it was all fine, that she had not caused her little sister's death, but knew that it would not do any good for her to cleanse her spirit in a dream. Dreams could only heal so much._

_But, Gwenneth thought as she picked her way over the cats to her sister, they can help the healers in the real world._

_Gently, she reached out and touched her sister's forehead. "Meren, awake. I would speak with you. Muinthiel, awake," she said softly. Her sister woke almost immediately, since this was truly a dream._

"_Gwenneth!" she gasped and embraced her, her body left behind in Aragorn's arms._

_Gwenneth returned the embrace, surprised by how much Meren had grown since she had last hugged her. She wished the Valar had permitted her to appear as she would have been, had she lived. It would have been much easier to hold and comfort her sister as a twenty year old comforting a twenty-four year old, than a six-year-old comforting the twenty-four-year-old._

"_Shh, shh, Meren, it's alright," Gwenneth said soothingly, stroking her sister's hair as Meren sobbed. "My death was not of your making. There was nothing anyone could have done. It was my time. I did try to tell you, but I did not have the words, muithiel nin. I heard the call, and I surrendered."_

_Meren was consumed by emotion, unable to answer her sister other than to repeat her name again and again. "Gwenneth, Gwenneth, I'm so sorry, so sorry Gwenneth, forgive me…"_

_Gwenneth continued to stroke Meren's hair and shush her gently. "There is nothing to forgive, dear Meren. And any forgiveness that needed to be given I gave to you long ago. Meren, listen to me," she gently tilted Meren's head so their's eyes met. "Meren, you must tell Aragorn. Tell him what happened, why you tried to end your life. Yes Meren, you must," the six-year old insisted to the woman, who was shaking her head, "You must tell him. For me, Meren, tell him for me. Meren, the greatest gift you can give me is that you forgive yourself, and live. Live Meren, and love again," Gwenneth could feel the dream starting to fade as dawn approached and Aragorn and her sister began to awake. "Tell him, Meren. Forgive yourself. I love you. Always remember that." _

_Gwenneth lay her hand on Meren's head in blessing as the dream faded and she slipped back to the house of her fathers, thanking the Lady that she had been allowed to help her sister and her sister's healer._

Aragorn woke slowly, slightly dazed by his experience. Somehow, he thought to himself as he stretched his neck, which ached from sleeping upright, he would never get used to talking a dead girl, even if he repeated his experience.

As Meren began to stir in his arms, he remembered Gwenneth's last words to him, a request—force Meren to tell him what happened. It was not a thought he relished, knowing how stubborn she was, but he agreed with her sister, if she did not relieve herself of the burden she carried, she would never heal her spirit.

"Meren, awake. Dawn has come," he informed her softly, deciding to use her true name, the name by which her sister called her. He gently brushed her long brown hair out of her eyes, and was surprised but thankful to find that her fever had broken; she was only slightly warm now.

"Mmm, can't be. 's too early," she mumbled, and tried to snuggle down into the warm bed before the pain of her wound stopped her movements. "Ugh. Aragorn, if you ever try to kill yourself, don't do it by stabbing."

Aragorn could have laughed to hear her say that. Not because of her morbid words, but because her sense of humor had returned to some degree, and she recognized him as Aragorn, and not as her father.

"I'll keep that in mind. And it's not too early. You've been asleep almost three days now. Perhaps a cup of tea will brighten your mood," he replied, easing her off him and settling her against the pillowed. She hissed as the movement jostled her broken ribs.

"You wouldn't think that jagged bone scrapping raw nerve would hurt, but it does. Like acid on a scrape. Tea would be most welcome," she concluded wearily, trying vainly to wrap more blankets around herself. "It is like ice in here," she said, shivering.

Aragorn threw a few more logs on to the fire, which had burned low during the night and dragged the couch he had brought in from one of the sitting rooms closer to the fire. He carefully wrapped a quilt around Meren and picked her up as though she were a newborn infant. Being as gentle as he could, he settled her on the couch, placing pillows behind her head and as many blankets over her as he thought her chest could stand.

"Thank you," Meren grunted as she settled into her new position and waited for the waves of pain to subside. "I never meant for you to have to tend me. I…had meant to wait until you were gone…"

"I am thankful then that you did not wait. Gondor would be a far poorer land without her mountain healer," Aragorn replied as he poured the boiling water over the tea leaves. Meren snorted, and then gasped as it sent shooting pains through her chest and gripped her as though she were in the grasp of a sadistic troll.

Aragorn lay a comforting hand on her shoulder as they waited for her pain to subside. When she was finally able to relax a bit, he handed her a mug of milky, sweet tea, which she took gratefully, wrapping her hands around it and breathing in the warm, fragrant steam.

"Thank you, mellon nin," she murmured into her mug as she sought to absorb as much heat from the tea as she could while she waited for it to reach a drinkable temperature. She gave a heavy sigh. "That was probably the most foolish thing I have ever done."

"Yes," Aragorn replied seriously. He had wanted to tell her that, but knew that it would not be wise to criticize her in her current fragile emotional state. He laughed to lighten the tension that now hung in the room. "Though, it just barely passes jumping off the barn roof to prove your brother wrong."

"Gwenneth did not approve of that either. She told me that a better way to prove to my brothers the worth of a sister was to beat them at sparring," she said, much to Aragorn's surprise. Was it possible that he was not the only one to receive a visit last night? It was the only explanation he could think of to explain why Meren was suddenly so open. Silently, he wondered whether her little sister was helping him help her sister, and decided it was time to pry a bit.

"Meren, what happened to Gwenneth?" he asked gently as he knelt on the floor beside her, holding her eyes in his own. "What happened that day?"

Meren sighed, a tears slowly falling into her half-empty mug. It went against all her instincts, all her carefully constructed emotional barriers to tell Aragorn what had happened that day, fourteen years ago; but Gwenneth had asked her to, told her to. She could not deny her little sister. She never could.

"It was so…sudden…unexpected," Meren began, still talking to her mug of tea. It was some how easier to tell her story, to unburden her heart to a cup of tea and her flickering reflection, knowing that Aragorn was listening, than to look him in the eye. "She had been so healthy for the past two years. The winter before, when she was five, was the first winter Naneth and Ada let her go outside to play and she was fine. She had played with us in the fields since she was four. She was never as strong as the rest of us, but she was better, and she hadn't come as close to death as she had when she was two again. Until that winter…"

She paused, silent tears falling onto the blankets. Aragorn wanted to hold her comfort her, and bid her to continue to release the poison from her spirit, but knew it was best to wait for her to be ready to continue.

"It was very cold that winter, and a terrible storm was blowing in when…she started coughing…That was the most fearful sound in the world to me," she shuddered, remembering the deep rasping, rattling, choking sound that came from her little sister's lungs, the sight of the strangling coughs racking the frail six-year-old frame that only that summer had swum to the small island in the lake with her. Her sister had not been strong, but she could swim like a fish.

"I did everything I could. I slept next to her to keep her warm, I held her upright in my arms to help her breathe, I fed her warm broths and soothing teas, I rubbed her chest with eucalyptus salve, I poured as much of my power and life-force into her as she would accept, but she just grew weaker and weaker…" she broke into sobs at the memory of her little sister, her Gwenneth, her baby sister wasting away in her arms, coughing up green fluid speckled with blood, her lips blue-tinged as she fought for breath.

Instinctively, Aragorn knew that this was the moment for him to reach out to Meren, as a healer, as a friend, and as a brother. Moving softly as Meren continued to weep, he sat behind her on the sofa arm and lay his hand on her shoulder. Immediately, he felt his own healing gift awaken and flow out to this woman he looked on as a sister. He silently poured understanding, comfort and strength into her, even as he felt the tidal wave of grief, pain, guilt and longing flow out of her. It amazed him that she had carried her burden alone for so many years. There were few people in Middle Earth he knew of who could carry such a burden for so long.

Meren was scarcely aware of Aragorn behind her until he placed his hand on her shoulder. Then, gradually at first, like the first trickle of water through a dam wall, then rushing between them, she felt the pain she had carried all these ease, the crushing guilt grow less heavy, the grief become more bearable, the longing and need for an empathetic companion dissipate. She felt comfort flood her heart, understanding that eased the ache that had taken residence that day, and strength, strength to go on, to live, learn to love again, to forgive herself, and accept the forgiveness of her sister. Strength to escape from her past, which had not merely haunted her, but trapped her.

Several moments went by before she spoke again, still receiving the strength Aragorn was giving her, her eyes closed in an attempt to stem the flow of tears.

"Ada thought it was too much for me, that I would kill myself, that I shouldn't be trying to take so much responsibility…I don't know what he thought…that's just what he told me as he dragged me away from her to help him get the Healer. I tried to fight, to stay with her, but Ada was too strong, I was too small, too weak, too tired…," she paused as remembered all too clearly struggly vainly against her father's arms as he picked her up out of her sister's bed and wrapped her in his cloak, all the while she cried and begged to be left with Gwenneth. With vivid clarity she recalled the look on her sister's face…a look of aged resignation and sorrow, as though her sister were twenty times her age, and knew that she would soon leave the confines of this world, and was only sorry that she would never see the small child weeping in her father's arms again…a look that she had vowed she would never again see on her sister's face…"We rode for hours, and I fell asleep…

"When we were approaching the village, I felt Gwenneth…slip…" How could she describe what she had felt to Aragorn, to anyone? The tugging, yanking feeling, like someone had been holding her hand and suddenly walked off a cliff, and was now pulling at her arm. She had somehow known at that moment that her baby sister had fallen into a coma and was closer to death, but all she could do was try to pull back on the tugging sensation…like she was trying to pull her fallen companion up onto solid ground.

Aragorn could sense her distress. She had come to realize how badly she needed to tell her story, but could not find the words to describe the feels that so few in the history of Middle Earth had felt.

"Meren?" he asked softly.

"I couldn't do anything. I couldn't…do…anything. I tried to hold on to her, keep her alive, until I got back. I held her while we got the healer, but all I could do was urge them to go faster…she was slipping, slipping, and I couldn't stop her!" she broke off again as she remembered the agony she had felt, and still felt to some degree, especially whenever she remembered that day. The feeling of being torn in two, as though one arm were caught on something on the cliff's edge, and her other arm was being torn off by the weight of Gwenneth, who had fallen off…that she was being stretched…that she was near to breaking like a over tight bow string. Being pulled apart, then her arm dislocating out of it's socket, then her shoulder. The ligaments, tendons and muscles that held her together slowly tearing, snapping, giving up the attempt to keep her arm and everything attached to it attached to the rest of her.

"We were almost home, I thought we had made it, that I would be able to…save her…but…," she swallowed nervously and took a deep breath, steeling herself for the pain she would feel at the memory, and for the rebuke, the condemnation of Aragorn at hearing of her failure. How could he not blame her for Gwenneth's death?

"We were only a half a mile, maybe less, when…I felt her…break away…tear away from me…d-d…die," she choked on the last word. "I ran to the house, I touched her, I followed her, but she was on the other side, and they wouldn't let me take her back and they wouldn't let me follow her, and and and, they sent me back! I couldn't save her!" she broke down into sobs. "Oh, Eru, I miss her so much!"

Aragorn gently drew her head onto his lap and smoothed her hair from her face as he let her cry. At last, he no longer sensed the guilt, nor the overwhelming burden, nor the gnawing agony, only sorrow and loneliness in her. He softly shushed her, telling her over and over again that it was alright, it wasn't her fault.

Meren let herself be comforted as she let her guilt and anguish flow out of her. She knew now that Gwenneth didn't blame her. Somehow, there was hope once again in her life. There was still pain, much pain, but it would no longer tear at her…she would heal…Gwenneth would help her, Aragorn would help her…she would be made whole again.


	18. With You Always

**With You Always

* * *

**

**"The hands of the King are the hands of a healer." –Ioreth, quoting an ancient prophecy in _Return of the King._**

**"I will never leave you nor forsake you"-Bible.**

* * *

Aragorn gently drew her head onto his lap and smoothed her hair from her face as he let her cry. At last, he no longer sensed the guilt, nor the overwhelming burden, nor the gnawing agony, only sorrow and loneliness in her. He softly shushed her, telling her over and over again that it was all right, it wasn't her fault. 

Meren let herself be comforted as she let her guilt and anguish flow out of her. She knew now that Gwenneth didn't blame her. Somehow, there was hope once again in her life. There was still pain, much pain, but it would no longer tear at her…she would heal…Gwenneth would help her, Aragorn would help her…she would be made whole again.

As if to provide a stark irony to her thoughts, Meren coughed, choked and groaned, dropping her mug and clutching her chest where she had stabbed herself. The mug shattered as it rolled off her lap and onto the floor, the remains of her tea soaking the shards. She doubled up in pain as the jerking movement of coughing sent fresh waves of stabbing, burning, icy pain though her chest and to the rest of her body.

"Meren!" Aragorn cried out, deeply worried that she would puncture a lung or tear the stitches again. His worst fears seemed to be confirmed when Meren drew a hand away from her wound and held it up, where it shimmered scarlet in the light of lamp and dawn.

Aragorn sprang into action, carrying Meren back to her bed where he could more easily treat the wound. His healer instincts took precedence over all others and so he quickly slit open Meren's night shift to reveal the bandages soaked in blood. He snatched a clean pad from the nightstand, which he had temporarily turned into a bandaging station, and after cutting loose the used bandages, applied as much pressure as he dared to try and slow the bleeding.

A few minutes later, he slowly eased the pad away, to reveal that the bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but the stitches had been torn once again. Aragorn sighed worriedly; he did not want to have to continually pull skin towards the wound so he could stitch it closed, as it would leave a great deal of tight scar tissue. As he cleaned the area around the wound, Aragorn grew even more concerned as he saw that the area around the wound was red, the first signs of infection.

"Aragorn?" Meren rasped as he gently prodded the wound. "It's infected?"

"Aye," he replied sadly. "It's beginning to be."

"Cauterize," she choked out as she sought to stop a new cough before it started.

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "I don't want to resort to that until there are no other options," he told her. "I don't want to risk cauterizing your lung."

"What…choice?" she asked pragmatically.

Aragorn sighed. "I'll wrap it in honey, garlic and herbs for today," he said, "If by tomorrow, it's worse, I'll consider cauterizing it."

Meren nodded. "Agreed."

"Agreed," repeated Aragorn before turning to mix the paste he would put on the wound, hoping against hope that it would do the trick. When he was ready, he first washed the wound and the area around it with water and salt. Meren hissed at the pain as the salt water stung her raw flesh, and then laughed hoarsely.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Aragorn incredulously, pausing in his administrations. Meren continued to laugh for a moment before speaking.

"You're…only man…I'd let…see me…like this…Be glad…I…consider…you…brother," she gasped out, coughing and giggling at the same time. Aragorn paused for a moment, blinked, and then ducked his head as he blushed and laughed freely as he realized what she was saying. He collapsed laughing on the floor and held his sides before they ripped open.

"Valar," he choked out as the laughter subsided for both of them. "I see what you mean. Forgive me."

"Hehe, urg, ow," Meren said. "Do not think anything of it. We are equal now. " She sighed and relaxed her body, willing the constricted muscles in her chest to release their tension. She knew she had to rest in everyway if she were to survive her self-inflicted wounds. If she died after so newly regaining life, how would she face Gwenneth in those alabaster chambers?

Aragorn rose from the floor and finished his task of binding up her wounds before helping to ease her into a fresh night shift. He carefully pulled up the blankets and tucked them around her shivering form. To Aragorn, it seemed that while she had returned to life, there was a frailty to her yet, almost as though she were a newborn child that needed love and attention; she had lived with an incredible burden for so long, cut herself off for so many years, it would take time, and friendship, to help her heal. By the time he had finished arranging the blankets to his satisfaction, Meren had drifted into a shallow, but restful sleep. Aragorn smiled paternally at her and settled himself on the sofa to catch a few winks himself, now assured that Meren would not will her life away while he slept.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

_"Laughter is the best medicine," familiar voice said next to Meren. She sat up quickly, and then paused, shocked not to feel any pain. She looked at her surroundings in equal shock—she was in a shady clearing, surrounded by ancient trees, tall and strong. Next to her, sat Gwenneth, smiling, and looking somewhat older than the six-year-old that had spoken to her the night before. "But I must say, you do chose the strangest things to laugh at."_

_"Well, what would you have me do? As soon as I realized I was exposed, I either had to burst out laughing, or break his nose!" Meren retorted, sitting up fully and turning to face her sister. "You look older."_

_"I would be twenty if I were alive," Gwenneth pointed out. "And I don't actually look like a six-year-old anymore."_

_"What do you look like?" Meren asked. She then paused. "How are you talking to me?"_

_"Meren," Gwenneth said gently, "I have always been able to talk to you. It was you who prevented it."_

_"Gwenneth, how? I have longed to speak to you," Meren asked, hurt and confused by Gwenneth's allegation._

_Gwenneth sighed, trying to think of the best way to explain the strange reality to her sister. "Meren, if a man is torn in two, bleeding to death and in excruciating pain, can he speak? Can he hear coherently what is spoken to him?"_

_"No."_

_"Meren, for all these years, you have been like that man, your soul torn apart, slowly bleeding and in pain; to try and block the pain, you build walls around yourself, cut yourself off from contact, physical and spiritual. Those walls prevented me from comforting you."_

_Meren shook her head. "But I thought the dead cannot speak to the living."_

_Gwenneth smiled. "Under normal circumstances, the dead may not. However, there are a few exceptions, which is how I can speak to Aragorn, and then there are circumstances like ours. Meren, there are bonds which not even the shadow of death can break. You and I are bonded not only as sisters, but, uh, our souls are connected by an invisible bond, which can never be broken."_

_Meren smiled and embraced her sister. "Oh, little sister, I have missed you so much." _

_Gwenneth returned her sister's crushing hug. "As have I you. But I am always here, meleth. Now, Meren, I must speak to Aragorn before he wakes, so I must be rather brief I fear, though I shall return. Meren, I know you have lost track of the days recently, but you must begin to remember now. You must either gather the strength to sneak bandages without Aragorn noticing, or you must remind him that you are a woman."_

_Meren nodded, and thought for a moment. "Gwenneth, how do you know about that?"_

_"Meren, there is no such thing as secrets when you are dead."_

_"Ah."_

_"I would suggest you tell Aragorn, lest he accidentally discover you bleeding and think that you have suffered new internal damage."_

_"Mmm, but, uh, does he know about such things, or must explain them to him?"_

_Gwenneth smiled. "Meren, I assure you, he knows about them."_

_"Good," Meren said, relieved that she did not have to explain the "facts of life" to her guest._

_Gwenneth gently placed a kiss upon her sister's brow. "Meleth, I must go now, but know that I love you, and that we shall see each other again soon."_

_Meren nodded and lay down in the soft grass again, "Gwenneth, hannon le."_

_Gwenneth smiled. "You are welcome."_

oxoxoxoxoxo

_"Aragorn, I must speak with you, awake," Gwenneth gently prodded the sleeping man, and Aragorn immediately jumped into wakefulness. _

_"Gwenneth!" he said, startled. "What's the matter? Is Meren—"_

_"Peace," she replied. "My sister is well, for the moment. I wish to speak with you concerning the wound."_

_Aragorn hung his head. "I know not what to do," he confessed to the girl. "The infection seems to be deep, but I fear cauterizing the wound as Meren suggests would send her into shock and kill her."_

_Gwenneth took Aragorn's hands in her own. "Aragorn, there is another way, which only you know."_

_"What?" asked Aragorn. He was desperate to find another solution. His healer instincts told him that the honey, which he had been applying liberally all along, would not save his friend. _

_"Aragorn, you are Elendil's heir. You posses the power to heal. Don't shake your head, look at your hands." Aragorn looked at his hands, calloused and large, resting in the small, delicate hands of the spirit; to his amazement, his hands began to glow, and radiate power._

_"Elessar, do not doubt yourself. You were a healer before you were born. I leave my sister in your hands," Gwenneth told him, before slowly fading away. "Do not fail me."

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_

TBC

A/N: My sincerest apologies to my readers. I did not mean to go this long without updating, and that this chapter is so short. The next one will be longer, I swear. I promise you this story is nowhere near over yet, and that even when it does, there is a sequel in the works. Many thanks to all my reviewers, who have encouraged me to keep going. If you have not reviewed yet, please do! It makes my day, week and month to read the reviews!


	19. The Bothers and Benefits of Baths

**The Bothers and Benefits of Baths

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**

The steadily increasing feline population at the foot of the bed was rudely disturbed mid-afternoon that same day as a previously sleeping Meren jerked into wakefulness and unwisely attempted to jump out of bed. She fell back onto her pillows with a moan and tried to organize her thoughts and figure out _why_ she had tried to jump out of bed when she knew full well that she could not.

Bath. She desperately wanted a bath. That was what she had tried to leap out her sickbed for— steaming hot, lavender and juniper infused, almost-too-deep-for-her-to get-into-the-tub bath. She had been dreaming about one since Gwenneth had left her to do whatever it was that Gwenneth did when she wasn't talking to her. She could not remember the last time she had had a bath: she was fairly certain she had not taken one since she had tried to commit suicide, and if she had taken one before that, she did not remember; the weeks leading up to her attempt on her life were blurred, either from the lack of sleep or her own confusion at the time.

But now, she wanted, craved, _needed_ a bath. She felt dirty, stiff, and, despite Aragorn's attempts to clean off as much blood as possible, she could still smell the sickly, coppery smell of her own blood. She didn't need to wash her hair; that could wait until she was better, but she dreadfully wanted to get clean.

An upsetting thought occurred to her just as she decided she needed to wash—she would have to ask Aragorn for help.

There was no way around it. She was incapable of walking, both because of her stab wound and her broken ankle and she knew that she was still far too weak to take a single step, let alone walk down the hall. Furthermore, she could not undress herself. She could not move her left arm without pulling at the wound, and was very limited in how much she could move her right arm.

The bottom line was that she would need to have Aragorn undress her, place her in the tub, get her out, dry her and dress her again if she wanted a bath. There was no alternative. Meren almost laughed as she realized that this was an absurd test of her resolve to get clean.

She realized all this in the few seconds that it took Aragorn to get from the couch to the bed at the sound of the cat's meows of indignation and her moan of pain.

"Meren, are you alright?" he asked worriedly, absentmindedly shooing away several cats and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Yes, I'm fine," she replied with a self-conscious smile. Or rather, that's what she had intended to say. What she actually said was, "Yes…Aragorn, I need to wash. I need a bath."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Meren wanted nothing more to find a hard wall and bang her head against it and then sew her mouth closed. Damn her tongue! Her mouth had spoken before her mind could formulate a reply.

Aragorn blinked slowly at his patient, his mind trying to make sense of what she had just said. A bath. Did Meren realize that she was completely incapacitated, what a bath would entail? Or was it just the fever talking? Aragorn knew from experience that fevers could make people say things that they didn't really mean, that the delirium could put ideas in their heads…

Meren simply continued to stare at him. She had maintained her composure despite the fact that she wanted the floor to swallow her. She had voiced her desire. Perhaps not tactfully, or in the manner she would have preferred, but it was said, and the only thing she could do now was stand by her words.

The cats at the foot of the bed watched the silent staring contest between their two humans with mild interest. The last week or so had been depressingly devoid of interest, as the two humans had not had any of their sparring matches, verbal or otherwise. Normally, the cats could not have been bothered by such things, but they were temporarily trapped in their house until the snow melted, so this was the most entertaining thing they could find.

"Meren, you do realize…" Aragorn began slowly, hoping that Meren would recant her request.

She stared levelly at him. "Yes Aragorn. I realize that you would have to do just about everything for me."

"You know that I would have to…" Aragorn gestured abstractly at Meren's clothing, clearly embarrassed by the entire proposition. Exposing a woman's chest in the process of healing was one thing, but this was entirely another.

"Aragorn, look at me. No, don't stare nervously at me, look at me," she commanded sternly. "Aragorn, I am stiff. I am bloody. And within the week, my womanhood will make itself known. I need to wash. If it makes you feel any better, it will undoubtedly help my cough."

"Meren…" was all Aragorn could say as he shook his head slowly, desperately wishing that there were someone else in the house with him, preferably a female, but an elf would do as well. It would make him feel less…

"Aragorn. Help me. Take me to the bathing room. We'll work on how to keep my modesty intact there. Please, my brother," she pleaded with him, and gave him a look that was guaranteed to win him over. She hadn't dealt with two older brothers for twenty years for nothing.

Faced with her determination, Aragorn felt he had very little choice but to obey her wishes.

After several unsuccessful attempts to shift the cats gently, Aragorn was forced to simply lift the blanket on which they lay entirely off the bed so he could get to Meren. The cats meowed indignantly and clung tenaciously to the blanket. Meren laughed stiffly at the sight of a dozen cats clinging to a vertical quilt while Aragorn tried to shake them loose.

Having freed Meren from the weight of the cats, Aragorn gently placed his arms under her shoulders and knees, picking her up as carefully as he could.

Meren hissed through her teeth as her ribs, ankle and head began to pound like a cave troll was using them as a punching bag.

"Meren?" Aragorn asked, concerned that he had inadvertently hurt her when he had picked her up. She sighed and unclenched her teeth.

"I am fine," she replied. "And don't contradict me," she said, cutting off his reply.

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Once actually in the bathing room, despite their mutual discomfort, they put on stony masks and applied themselves to the task at hand. With Meren settled as comfortably as possible on the bench in the room, Aragorn set about making the experience as painless as possible. He began by raiding the linen closet for as many towels as he could find, and began to line the gigantic stone tub with them, using folded towels as pillows for where her head and arms would be. Then, setting aside a few of the largest towels for other purposes, he turned the taps and the steaming water began to flow into the tub.

"Aragorn," Meren said, "Look in that cabinet over there. You'll find vials of oils in there. They should be labeled. Put some in please. Lavender and juniper. Oh, there should also be a jar of dried herbs labeled "cough" and another labeled "wounds". Sprinkle about a palmful of each in the tub as well."

At last, the moment they had both dreaded arrived. The tub was mostly full, and the refreshing smell of the herbs permeated the room.

Aragorn knelt besides the bench and then faltered, uncertain what was the best course of action. Meren, on the other hand, mortified and anxious though she was, was certain of the best course.

"Aragorn," she said softly, knowing that Aragorn was just as embarrassed and nervous as she was, "lay one of the large towels over my hips and legs. Then pull my nightshift out from under them and up around my chest. Then we shall proceed from there."

Aragorn obeyed, blushing furiously as he slid the towel under her nightshift. He could feel Meren tense as his hand brushed against her leg. The tension in the room was as palpable as a brick wall. Vainly, he tried to move her nightshift without jostling her, but it was an impossible task. Meren gasped in pain.

"Wait, wait. Stop!" she shouted. She took a moment to regain her breath before continuing. "This isn't going to work. Go over to the cabinet, and find the pair of scissors. Bring them here, and simply cut away the nightshift."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. "Are you certain?" he asked cautiously.

"Yes, yes, I have more where this one came from, and I can always mend it later, so long as you don't turn it to ribbons," she replied. Aragorn shrugged and obey, retrieving the pair of scissors and cutting as best he could along the seams of the night shift. He reached the sleeves on one side and paused, unsure.

"Cut along the front of the sleeve," Meren instructed. "After that it should be fairly simply to get the rest off. I don't think you even have to cut the other side." Aragorn followed her instructions and, as she had thought, it was easy to slide another towel over her chest, under the shift, and then slide her arms out of the sleeves. From there, all Aragorn had to do was carefully tuck the towels under her as best he could. He gently lifted her, and carried her to the tub, where he lay her in the water, the towels still covering her. They ballooned as she sank into the water, and Meren laughed through gritted teeth as she tried to make them sink into the water with her.

"Down! Down, you dratted towels!" she giggled as she tried to rid them of the trapped air pockets and make them sink. Finally she succeeded, much to Aragorn's dismay, as they now clung to her body in the water. He looked away; if at all possible, his face was a deeper shade of red than it had been before. Meren looked up and burst out laughing at her friend's discomfort.

"Haha, I'm sorry, hehe," she giggled as Aragorn desperately tried to find somewhere he could go without seeing her. "There should be a folding screen in the corner over there," she told him. She laughed to watch how quickly he rushed to find the screen and stumble over himself in his haste to set it up.

"Relax," she told him. "I intend to enjoy my bath."

oxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

Getting Meren out of the tub was proving even more problematic than getting her in. The towels had absorbed some of the water, making them like lead weights. Meren herself was slick with the bath oils and soap, and was in a difficult position to be picked up anyway. Finally, they tried draining the tub, and then, eyes closed, Aragorn removed the heavy wet towels and replaced them with dry ones, making it much easy to get a hold of Meren in the process. However, despite her emaciated state, she was still a large, fairly heavy object in an awkward position to be picked up easily, and Aragorn found that he could not do so without causing her a great deal of pain.

In the end, however it was accomplished with the help of a footstool, which was hidden in a corner of the bathroom. By placing it in the tub, Aragorn was able to help Meren first on to it, and then it was much easier to lift her out, though not without causing her pain.

"Ahh!" she cried as he lifted her out and carried her over to the bench, on which he had spread a thick, warm blanket from the other room. As gently as possible, he wrapped her in it before carrying her like a swaddled babe back to her bedroom.

After Aragorn had reassured himself that Meren was not going to try and drown herself in the water, he had slipped back to the bedroom to change the sheets and straighten it a bit. He had also found several hot water bottles at the foot of the bed, which he had subsequently refilled with hot water.

Now, as Aragorn lay her on the clean, crisp sheets, still smelling of dried lavender and the cedar chest in which they were stored, Meren was filled with a sense of peace, despite the still gnawing hole in her heart, despite the pain of her wounds and her shame in trying to kill herself. She snuggled into the towels and blankets in which she was wrapped, and sighed contentedly. Her problems were many, yes, but she had a newfound sense of hope.

Aragorn watched as his patient and hostess rested in her cocoon of towels and blankets, and wondered, bemused, whether there was some special power in the herbs that he had put in the bath, to turn the mourning, silent woman of the past few days into the contented-cat-like woman before him. He shook his head, a smile on his face, and brought over the bandages and other healing supplies to begin the re-bandaging of her wounds.

As he set them down on the bedside table, Meren opened her eyes and gave him a small smile.

"It will all be put right, won't it?" she asked him. Once more, Aragorn was struck by how childlike she was, looking for reassurance. He returned her smile and cupped her face in his hand.

"Yes, tithen min. It will all be put right, in time," he told her.

TBC

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A/N: I sincerely apologise to all my readers for not updating for so long. I do have an excuse, but no excuse is good enough for not updating in 4 months! I will do my best not to neglect updating for so long again. Please, please leave a review! 


	20. An Unforeseen Obstacle

**An Unforeseen Obstacle

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**

"It will all be alright," Aragorn reassured her with a smile, then gave her hand a gentle squeeze before fetching the tray of healing supplies and setting it down on the nightstand.

Meren felt a sudden chill of fear run up and down her spine as she saw what had joined the jars of ointment—a bottle of alcohol, specifically scotch, and a bottle of carbonic acid. Of all the healing implements in her cupboards, she hated these the most. Cauterizing, yes it was painful, but it was, as her brother Adan called it, "a one shot deal". Once a wound was cauterized, it either healed, or you died. Alcohol and acid, though, they could be applied over and over. Cauterizing left scars, but the pain of repeated applications of alcohol or acid…she had seen a soldier, battle scarred and fearless, become catatonic after a week of the torturous treatment.

Aragorn saw her shudder and how her eyes seemed to be locked on the two new bottles on the tray. Aragorn did not like them there either, but were far better alternatives to cauterization. Cauterization was nothing short of torture on a wound that was not yet infected; on a wound that was, as Meren's was well on its way to being, well, Morgoth himself could not think of a more agonizing punishment.

There were other reasons for his preference of the alcohol and acid over a hot iron—they did not disfigure. The acid may discolor, but it did not mangle the flesh as an iron would. Aragorn knew that given a choice between the permanent disfigurement of her breast and the even more permanent loss of her newfound life, Meren would choose life. But Aragorn did not want to force her to make that choice. There were also less subjective concerns: if the iron accidentally touched her lung, it would permanently scar it, dooming Meren to a lifetime of shallow, painful breathing. She was also so weak, that the shock to her body could be too much, stopping her heart or weakening it to a dangerous point, ending her active life.

Meren said nothing, hoping against hope that no drastic measures would be necessary. Both knew that when the towels were pulled aside and the bandages cut off, it would still be infected, but humans are notoriously illogical and optimistic.

Aragorn gently pulled aside the blanket and towel, revealing the soaking wet bandages. But they were soaked, not only with bathwater, but blood and pus. Aragorn's stomach churned sickeningly as he cut the bandages and pulled them aside. There was no doubt; it was infected, and badly. The flesh around the wound was an angry red, inflamed and hot to the touch. There was a faint, putrid smell rising from the wound as the pus and blood oozed through the stitches.

Meren looked down at her chest and winced. Whereas before she had just barely been able to see a part of her wound, she could now see how grave the infection was: the inflammation and redness had spread onto her breast, her stomach, her chest. It made her sick to think that was her she was looking at, and that she was the cause.

"Cauterize. Now, or I die," she told Aragorn, who was reaching for the acid. "Damn it Aragorn! Stop thinking about the scarring!"

"Meren…" Aragorn started.

"_The hands of a healer…._" he heard a ghostly voice whisper in his ear.

"Meren," he said more sure of himself and drawing his hand away from the hated acid,"I would like to try something else before we resort to any drastic measures. But," he warned her, "You will have to trust me."

Meren grinned. "Gwenneth?"

Aragorn returned her smile nervously. "Aye. But can you trust me?"

"With more than my life," she replied, reassured knowing that Gwenneth had a hand in it, though still somewhat apprehensive as to what this "something else" was.

Aragorn gave her a reassuring smile and gently squeezed her hand. "It shouldn't hurt at all," he told her.

Slightly cupping his hands in front of him, Aragorn closed his eyes, focusing his whole being on drawing power from within himself as he had felt Gwenneth do. He gradually felt the heat grow in his hands, until he could see the glow through his closed eyelids.

Moving slowly, he turned his hands over and lay his hands over her wound, letting them flutter a hair's breadth above her flesh. As he did, Aragorn began to feel healing energy flow out of his hands like hot oil. He heard Meren gasp, bit it was not the raspy, choking gasp of the morning—this was clear. Not a gasp of pain, but like that of a diver coming up for air.

Aragorn began to feel cold and shiver, even as sweat beaded his face. Aragorn ignored it, dismissing it as the exertion of healing.

Then his chest began to ache, as though his ribs were broken—right where Meren's rib has been broken by the knife. Was this supposed to be happening?

There was a knife stabbing at his chest, pushing through from within—but he kept his hands over Meren's wound, willing more and more of the liquid fire through his hands and into her.

Meren had felt the fever leave her body and the pain subside. So surprised had she been that she hadn't noticed at first what was happening to her healer.

His skin was pale, except his cheek, which was flushed with fever. He trembled, and Meren watched in horror as a scarlet flower bloomed on his chest…right where her own wound was.

Meren did the first thing that came to mind—she shoved him with all her strength, which at the moment wasn't much. Nevertheless, at her touch Aragorn collapsed to the floor beside her bed with a moan.

"Oh Valar, what have you done?" she whispered as he lay gasping for breath on the floor.

Without thinking, she began to sit up, and stopped in surprise—the pain was gone. Not wholly. There was still the sharp ache of broken ribs healing, the sting of cold air on broken skin, but the _pain_, the molten lava pouring over her chest, the troll with a sledgehammer, they were gone. Unbelievingly, Meren looked down at her chest. The redness of infection was gone. Gently, trembling, she touched her wound. It was clean.

Another soft moan brought her attention swiftly back to Aragorn. Finding that she could now move without a great deal of difficulty, Meren wrapped the blanket around herself, leaving her arms free, and secured it so it would not fall off. She then carefully eased herself off the bed and onto the floor. There was no small amount of trouble in doing this: her ankle was still broken, as were several of her fingers. But at last she had eased herself to the floor beside Aragorn.

Sitting with her broken leg outstretched beside her, she gently helped Aragorn lean against her bedside table, which had drawers that provided a solid back for him to rest against. Meren reached up and pulled down as many pillows as she could reach, layering them behind his head, making him as comfortable as possible.

It was with a sense of guilt that she peeled away Aragorn's loose shirt and tunic from the hot, sticky flesh. Her stomach flip-flop nauseatingly when she saw the wound, which she had recently borne, which had somehow transposed itself onto her newfound brother.

"Aragorn, what did you do?" she whispered. She had expected him to have healing abilities—she had seen it in his spirit, but to her knowledge, healers were not supposed to heal by bearing the hurts themselves.

Meren pulled down the healing supplies. She glanced over the tray's contents, then at the wound. There was no way for her to get a hot iron, so she would have to do that which she abhorred, use the acid and alcohol. But first, she helped Aragorn to drink as much of the scotch as he would, to help deaden the pain.

Aragorn could not hold back a cry of agony when she began to pour liberal amounts of the burning liquids onto the wound. Meren winced sympathetically, but did not relent. Satisfied at last, she spread a thick layer of honey and herbs on the wound, and bandaged it as best she could. She then pulled down more blankets and pillows, making him as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, before curling up in a nest of her own, and drifting off to sleep, hoping to get some answers from Gwenneth.

Aragorn, too, was hoping to get answers as he drifted off to sleep, now comfortably oblivious, thanks to the scotch.

His world faded into darkness, calm and soothing, before drifting into the image of a glade near a stream.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to all who stopped by to review. As I said before, life threw me a couple curveballs and I'm still picking up the pieces, so updates will still be sporadic for a while. 

Before anyone yells at me for this first instance of healing, please, please wait for the next chapter. If you are still not satisfied, then you can yell at me.

For explanation of the presence of running hot water in the previous chapter, see chapter 5.

Thanks to KyrieofAccender for beta-ing this and several previous chapters. Hannon le!

Now, please, hit that nice little review button down at the bottom of the page. It makes my day, week, month! Please! Thank you.


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